MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

WILLIAM  HENRY  WARNER 
AND  DE  WITTE  KAPLAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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MOTHERS   OF  MEN 


•YOU!"   SHE  BREATHED. 


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MOTHERS  OF  MEN 


By 
WILLIAM  HENRY  WARNER 

AND 

DE  WITTE  KAPLAN 
With  Frontispiece  by  E.  L.  Blumenschein 


NEW  YORK 
TEMPLE    SCOTT 

101  PARK  AVENUE 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,    1919,    BY 
TEMPLE   SCOTT 


PS 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 


CHAPTER  I 

MARIE  sat  staring  at  the  thin,  hard-featured  man 
opposite  her.  His  eyes,  through  the  great  bone  spec 
tacles,  were  magnified  till  they  looked  like  some 
gigantic  insect's,  and  his  nervous  hands  shuffled 
among  the  papers  on  the  table  before  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Helmar,"  he  said,  "very  sorry, 
out  that  is  all  there  is.  Your  father  was  a  man  who 
indulged  his  hobbies,  and  you  must  admit  that  a 
hobby  which  carries  one  into  every  country  on  the 
globe  is  rather  expensive." 

Across  the  girl's  mind  came  the  image  of  her  father, 
whom  she  had  followed  weeping  to  the  cemetery  only 
yesterday.  His  tall,  thin  figure,  with  its  haggard, 
pain-racked  face,  was  clearly  before  her  mental  vision. 

When  her  mother,  who  was  now  only  a  shadowy 
remembrance,  had  faded  out  of  her  life,  Marie  had 
been  taken  to  the  convent  and  left  with  the  nuns. 
Her  childhood  had  been  passed  in  even,  colorless  days, 
in  which  the  monotony  had  only  been  broken  when 
she  had  been  called  into  the  library  once  a  week  to 
hear  the  letter  from  her  father,  who  was  wandering 
in  far  countries,  which,  for  her,  meant  only  the 
colored  maps  in  her  geography  books. 

1 


93S765 


2  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

It  seemed  little  longer  than  yesterday,  when  the 
Mother  Superior  had  sent  for  her  that  last  time.  She 
could  almost  hear  the  gentle  voice  now. 

"Your  father  is  coming  home  to  Vienna,  Marie. 
He  writes  he  has  had  his  solicitor  take  a  house  for 
him  on  the  Blumen  Strasse.  You  are  to  leave  us,  dear 
child,  and  make  a  home  for  him." 

This  wonderful  father  of  whom  she  had  been 
dreaming,  was  going  to  take  her  with  him  to  a  home 
of  their  own !  She  had  wanted  so  to  belong  to  some 
one.  The  holiday  time  had  always  meant  heart 
aches  for  her.  She  could  remember  how  wistfully  she 
had  stood  with  her  small  face  pressed  against  the  con 
vent  windows,  watching  her  schoolmates  as  they  left 
to  spend  those  days  at  home.  She  remembered  hov 
bare  and  empty  the  convent  had  looked  after  they 
were  gone,  and  she  had  been  left  to  wander  about 
alone,  till  the  school  days  should  begin  again.  The 
small,  hard  pillow  on  her  narrow  bed,  would  be  soaked 
with  tears  as  she  read  and  re-read  the  small  packet 
of  letters  from  her  father,  that  told  her  so  little. 
These  quiet  years,  while  they  had  succeeded  in  sup 
pressing  her  natural  affection,  had  only  stored  it 
away  as  it  were,  and  the  girl  was  pathetically  eager 
to  pour  it  out  to  the  father  whom  she  scarcely  knew. 

The  wonder  and  interest  of  those  first  few  months, 
woke  in  her  mind  ideals  and  dreams  she  had  never  had 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  convent,  where  her  day  had 
been  bounded  by  prayers  in  the  morning  and  the 
vesper  bell  at  night. 

Professor  Helmar's  life  had  been  wrapped  up  in 
his  pretty  wife.  She  had  been  much  younger  than 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  3 

the  reticent,  rather  shy  man,  whose  interests  were 
all  centered  in  the  dry  dust  of  forgotten  ages, 
until  the  living  sunshine  of  her  own  hair  had  flashed 
across  his  gray  vista.  There  had  been  six  joyous, 
wonderful  years,  and  then  suddenly  she  had  gone, 
leaving  the  place  she  had  filled,  empty  indeed.  Her 
short  illness  and  death  had  been  a  blow  so  severe  to 
him,  that  he  hesitated  only  long  enough  to  put  their 
little  daughter,  whose  golden  hair  reminded  him  too 
forcibly  of  his  loss,  in  the  care  of  the  nuns,  then  threw 
himself  once  more  into  his  researches  among  the  ruins 
of  antiquity. 

That  was  twelve  years  ago,  and  weary  at  last, 
longing  for  the  companionship  of  the  daughter  who 
was  the  symbol  of  the  love  that  had  meant  so  much 
to  him,  he  had  come  back.  And  in  this  short  year, 
Marie,  wide-eyed  and  passionately  eager  to  be  all 
that  this  wonderful  father  wanted  her  to  be,  had 
blossomed  from  the  shy  convent  child  into  the  promise 
of  charming  young  womanhood. 

The  little  house  in  the  Blumen  Strasse  was  filled 
with  his  books,  and  the  pictures  her  mother  had  loved. 
The  girl,  inspired  by  her  father,  came  to  know  and 
understand  art,  for  Professor  Helmar's  quest  after 
the  evolution  of  beauty,  had  carried  him  through  the 
ages,  from  its  shadowy  beginning  among  the  great 
temples  of  Egypt,  to  its  culmination  in  the  Greece 
of  Pericles.  Then,  like  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue,  had 
come  his  last  illness  and  death,  and  now  she  was 
alone. 

Something  of  all  this  flashed  across  her  mind  in  the 
few  seconds  the  solicitor  waited  for  his  answer,  much 


4  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

as  a  man's  life  passes  before  him  when  he  is  drowning. 
She  looked  about  her  helplessly. 

"But,"  she  scarcely  recognized  her  own  voice, 
"what  am  I  to  do?" 

"That,  my  dear  young  lady,"  this  time  the  solici 
tor  looked  over  the  great  spectacles,  "is  something 
you  will  have  to  decide  for  yourself.  Your  father 
gave  you  a  very  good  education,  I  believe." 

"I  was  at  the  Sacred  Heart  Convent  from  the 
time  I  was  six  until  just  about  a  year  ago.  They 
taught  me  French  and  music,  and  a  little  drawing.  I 
never  thought  I  should  have  to  use  them."  Indeed, 
the  idea  that  the  necessities  of  life  were  not  one's  by 
right,  had  never  entered  her  mind. 

The  solicitor  was  beginning  to  gather  up  the 
papers. 

"We  never  know,  my  dear  young  lady,  when  we 
will  be  overtaken  by  adversity.  It  is  always  well  to 
have  something  to  fall  back  upon.  Couldn't  you 
teach — er — say  French  ?  Music  ?" 

Marie's  tear-filled  eyes  wandered  about  the  taste 
ful  room.  With  what  happiness  she  had  come 
here,  and  after  so  brief  a  space  of  time,  this  over 
whelmingly  crushing  blow.  All  her  brief  life,  shel 
tered  as  it  had  been  in  the  convent,  her  mind  had  never 
dwelt  upon  the  nature  of  material  things.  There 
had  always  been  new,  clean  frocks  for  her.  There 
had  always  been  sufficient  food  to  eat  without  the 
thought  of  how  it  had  been  provided,  always  the 
haven  of  her  scrupulously  clean,  little  white  room. 
These  things  all  were,  there  was  no  thought  in  her 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  5 

mind  of  how  they  came  to  be,  nor  the  possibility  that 
they  would  ever  cease  to  exist. 

But  now,  the  meaning  of  the  shriveled  old  solicitor's 
words  were  making  themselves  plain  to  her.  The 
means  of  a  livelihood  had  been  taken  away.  She 
must,  in  order  to  live,  provide  for  herself,  either 
through  some  physical  exertion,  or  some  mental 
effort.  What  was  she  to  do? 

She  had  never  learned  to  walk  alone.  The  quiet 
cloisters,  the  sweet-faced  nuns,  had  been  a  prop  on 
which  she  had  leaned.  When  her  father  had  returned 
from  those  journeys  into  foreign  lands,  where  his  dis 
coveries  and  scientific  studies  had  furnished  dreams 
for  her  lonely  childhood,  she  had  leaned  as  heavily  on 
him,  and  now  that  this  support  had  been  taken  away, 
she  stood  like  one  swaying  dizzily  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice. 

It  was  so  short  a  time  ago,  only  a  year,  that  he 
had  returned,  but  how  different  from  the  strong, 
stalwart,  handsome  man  she  had  been  expecting. 

Again  his  face  seemed  to  float  before  her,  pale, 
thin,  drawn  with  suffering,  with  its  sad  eyes  always 
seeming  to  ask  for  something.  Her  poor  father! 
The  love  and  companionship  she  had  dreamed  of  had 
been  too  long  deferred,  and  he  had  gone  away  on  that 
last  great  j  ourney,  only  to  leave  her  worse  than  alone 
in  the  end. 

"I  suppose  you  will  not  want  to  keep  up  this 
place,"  the  solicitor's  voice  broke  in  on  her  thoughts, 
"it  will  be  quite  beyond  your  affording." 

She  looked  about  her  at  the  things  she  had  learned 
to  love.  After  the  bare  convent  walls,  the  simple 


6  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

beauty  of  this  little  home,  had  seemed  luxury  itself. 
The  really  fine  etchings  which  had  been  her  mother's, 
the  delicate  little  Tanagra  figurines  her  father  had 
brought  her,  the  bits  of  Pompeiian  glass  flashing  back 
the  prismatic  colors  of  the  tears  that  must  once  have 
filled  them,  the  little  bronze  Narcissus,  which  she  had 
loved  above  everything,  must  she  give  them  all  up? 

Through  the  long  windows  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  tiny  garden  where  her  father  and  she  had  always 
had  their  coffee.  The  old  locust  tree  was  even  now 
dropping  its  fragrant  white  petals  on  the  flagging. 
He  had  loved  the  scent  of  these  white  blossoms !  How 
could  she  leave  it  all? 

"Where  shall  I  go?  Where  can  I  go?"  She  was 
frightened ;  the  world  seemed  such  a  vast,  unexplored 
place  to  her  who  had  known  only  the  convent  and 
these  sheltered  walls. 

The  papers  were  all  gathered  together  now,  and 
the  hands  of  the  solicitor  were  busy  putting  them 
carefully  into  his  black  leather  portfolio. 

"You  have  about  two  thousand  crowns,  Miss  Hel- 
mar,"  he  told  her,  "to  be  exact,  I  should  say,  that 
after  all  expenses  are  paid,  there  will  be  about  one 
hundred  crowns  a  month  for  you,  for  a  year.  That 
is  not  a  munificent  sum,  but  it  will  maintain  you 
until  you  begin  to  earn  your  living." 

Marie  looked  helplessly  about  her.  Her  knowledge 
of  money  was  not  very  extensive,  but  she  knew  that 
one  hundred  crowns  a  month  would  not  even  begin  to 
pay  the  rent  of  this  little  nest  her  father  had  brought 
her  to.  And  there  was  the  housekeeper  to  be  paid, 
food  to  be  bought,  clothes.  She  sighed. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  7 

"Where  shall  I  go  to  live?"  she  faltered. 

"You  will  find  many  places,  many  places,"  reas 
sured  the  solicitor,  "I  dare  say  I  may  be  able  to  find 
you — er — one  or  two  pupils — er — if  you  are  not  ex 
orbitant  in  your  prices." 

"Oh,  no,  I'll  not  be,"  she  answered  him  eagerly. 
"I'll  ask  the  least  possible,  Herr  Gutman.  I — I  sup 
pose  I  had  better  seek  a  room  for  myself  this — this 
afternoon  ?" 

"The  sooner,  the  better,"  the  tone  was  unsympa 
thetic,  there  were  too  many  cases  such  as  this,  stored 
away  among  his  files.  "The  less  time  you  stay  here, 
the  more  kronen  you  will  have  for  the  year."  He 
picked  up  his  shining  black  hat,  "I  must  bid  you  good 
morning,  Miss  Helmar.  If  there  is  anything  I  can 
do,  let  me  know.  Of  course,  I  shall  want  to  know 
your  new  address,"  and  with  a  slight  bow  he  left  her. 

Unpleasant  as  his  crabbed  features  were,  they  were 
better  than  no  one,  and  after  the  door  had  closed  on 
his  thin  figure,  she  felt  terrifyingly  alone. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  led  to  believe  that  Hunger 
and  Want,  those  two  cruel  sisters,  would  never  knock 
at  her  door,  but  here  they  were,  actually  grinning  at 
her  elbow.  When  this  small  sum  that  stood  between 
her  and  starvation  was  gone,  what  was  she  to  do? 
Suppose  she  couldn't  get  any  pupils?  Suppose  she 
could  find  no  way  of  earning  her  living.  The  thought 
sent  her  blond  head  down  on  her  arms,  and  shook 
her  slender,  black-clad  figure  with  sobs. 

"Ach,  Fraulein !"  it  was  old  Minna,  the  house 
keeper,  who  found  her,  and  whose  broad  hand  tried 
to  pat  some  comfort  into  the  shaking  shoulders. 


8  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Ach,  Fraulein,  you  must  not  cry  so,  it  is  much 
better  for  the  good  Herr  to  be  at  rest.  He  was  in 
pain  so  long,  it  is  much  better  so.'? 

"I  am  alone,  Minna,  I  am  alone,"  sobbed  the  girl, 
"nobody  wants  me,  nobody  needs  me,  I'm  alone." 

Minna  dabbed  her  eye  with  the  corner  of  her  stiff 
white  apron. 

"You  must  not  cry,  Fraulein,**  she  begged,  "you 
must  not  cry!  Come,  lie  down  awhile,  and  when  you 
are  rested,  you  will  feel  better!" 

"I  must  leave  here,  Minna,'*  sobbed  the  girl,  "I 
have  no  money  now — I'm — I'm  poor — I  must  go 
away — to-day.  I  don't  know  where!  I  don't  know 
where !" 

Minna's  broad  bosom  heaved  sympathetically. 

"Why  not  go  back  to  the  good  sisters  at  the 
Sacred  Heart?"  she  suggested. 

"That  was  my  thought,"  replied  Marie  between 
her  sobs,  and  indeed,  all  that  first  bitter  night  after 
her  father's  death,  she  had  longed  for  the  comfort 
ing  arms  of  the  Mother  Superior,  and  the  little 
French  sister  who  had  been  her  dearest  friend. 

"Why  not  go  there,  then?"  The  problem  seemed 
so  simple  to  the  good  German  woman. 

"I  promised  father,"  explained  Marie,  "that  I 
wouldn't.  You  see,  he  was  always  afraid  I  would  be 
come  a  nun.  He  said  I  was  never  meant  to  be  shut 
away  from  the  world ;  but,  oh,  Minna,  I'm  so  afraid." 

"Tut-tut,  Fraulein,  what  need  you  fear?"  For 
Minna  there  was  no  danger  that  she  could  not  meet 
with  the  aid  of  her  ready  tongue  and  able  arms. 
"Can't  you  keep  this  pretty  house?" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  9 

"I  am  poor  now,  Minna,"  Marie  told  her  sadly. 
"I  must  find  a  place  not  so  expensive,  I  must  find 
pupils,"  and  at  the  thought  the  golden  head  went 
down  again  on  her  folded  arms. 

The  old  woman  stared  at  her. 

"What  about  me?"  she  asked. 

Marie  lifted  her  head,  startled. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  hadn't  thought !" 

Minna  pursed  her  lips,  her  brow  wrinkling  into  a 
heavy  frown  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly,  her  face 
cleared. 

"Don't  mind  about  me,  Fraulein,"  she  said.  "I 
have  been  wanting  a  rest.  I  shall  take  it  for  a  week. 
After  that  there  are  plenty  of  places  for  good  house 
keepers." 

"But  where  can  I  go?"  The  blue  eyes  were  very 
wistful,  the  world  seemed  so  terrifyingly  large  and 
strange. 

Minna  thought  a  moment. 

"If  the  Fraulein  would  not  find  it  too  plain,"  she 
ventured,  "I  can  take  her  to  a  nice  place." 

"Nothing  is  too  plain,  Minna;  don't  you  under 
stand  that  I  am  poor?  Will  you  take  me  there, 
now?" 

"Of  course,  I  will."  Minna  was  all  eagerness.  "It 
is  quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  city,  Fraulein,  but 
it  is  clean,  and  I  think  we  can  get  it  cheap.  My 
friend  is  a  musician,"  this  with  some  pride,  "he  and 
his  wife  live  there.  I'll  get  my  bonnet.  We'll  go 
right  away !"  and  she  bustled  out  to  prepare  for  the 
journey. 

Marie  sat  a  moment  looking  about  her.  The  things 


10  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

she  loved  and  which  her  father  had  taught  her  to 
understand,  everything  that  had  grown  dear  to  her, 
she  must  leave  them  all,  for  the  grim-faced  Herr 
Gutman  had  made  it  very  plain  to  her  that  it  was 
only  by  selling  all  these  that  she  was  to  have  the 
means  to  live  at  all. 

Slowly,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  went  into  her  little 
room  with  its  pretty  pink  and  white  hangings,  its 
dainty  bed.  For  a  long  time  she  stood  and  stared  at 
herself  in  the  mirror.  The  sad  face  stared  back  at 
her,  made  whiter  by  the  black  of  her  mourning  frock. 
There  were  deep  shadows  under  her  blue  eyes,  one 
or  two  strands  of  fair  hair  had  escaped  from  their 
fastenings.  Wearily  she  brushed  them  back  and  dried 
her  tears.  She  pulled  a  small  black  leather  trunk 
out  of  the  cupboard  and  began  packing  it.  The  tears 
started  afresh  as  she  laid  her  belongings  neatly  in 
the  trays  and  put  in  the  dainty  piles  of  lingerie. 
Marie  loved  beautiful  things;  she  loved  to  feel  the 
touch  of  fine  linen  next  to  her  white  skin.  She  loved 
the  dainty  ribbons,  tied  across  her  young  breast. 
But  ribbons,  bows  and  silk  stockings  would  be  im 
possible  in  the  future. 

The  last  frock  packed,  the  last  pair  of  shoes  put 
in,  she  closed  and  locked  the  little  trunk,  then,  with 
trembling  lips,  she  pinned  on  her  black  hat  and 
slipped  into  her  coat. 

"I'm  ready,  Minna,"  she  called,  as  she  came  back 
into  the  living-room,  "we  must  waste  no  time." 

The  good  woman  bustled  in,  resplendent  in  her 
Sunday  bonnet. 

"I'm  ready  too,  Fraulein,"  she  said  as  she  but- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  11 

toned  across  her  ample  bosom  the  jacket  that  had 
evidently  been  made  for  her  in  less  buxom  days.  "I'm 
ready  too,  shall  we  start?" 

With  a  last  look  back,  Marie  went  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  that  world  of  which  she  knew  so 
little. 


CHAPTER  II 

DUEING  the  long  ride  across  the  city,  old  Minna 
kept  up  a  steady  chatter.  Her  one  idea  was  to  com 
fort  the  girl.  There  was  no  thought  of  her  own 
necessity  for  seeking  a  new  position.  There  were 
plenty  of  places  for  cooks  and  housekeepers,  but  this 
frail  little  creature,  who  sat  beside  her  with  the  black 
veil  drawn  down  over  her  face  to  hide  the  tears,  what 
could  she  do  ? 

Presently  they  got  off  the  tram,  and  Minna  lead 
ing  the  way,  hurried  up  a  narrow  street,  filled  with 
children  and  gossiping  women.  They  turned  in  at  a 
doorway  next  to  a  delicatessen  shop.  On  the  steps,  a 
little  girl  of  about  eight,  with  very  tightly  braided 
hair,  was  hushing  a  fat  baby  to  sleep.  The  child 
moved  aside  for  them  to  pass,  and  they  made  their 
way  up  the  long,  dark  stair.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
the  smell  of  cooking,  mixed  with  that  of  hot  soapsuds. 

Two  flights  up,  Minna  knocked  loudly  at  a  door, 
in  front  of  which  a  tiny  point  of  gas  was  sputtering 
in  a  crooked  jet. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  thin,  little  woman,  in  a 
clean  calico  dress,  with  a  small  black  apron  tied  over 
it.  She  wore  great  round  spectacles,  through  which 
her  sharp  black  eyes  twinkled.  She  tipped  her  chin 
in  a  curious  way,  as  she  looked  at  them. 

"Ach,  Minna,"  she  cried,  cordially,  "come  in,  come 
in.  It  is  so  long  since  Shatzi  and  I  have  seen  you." 

12 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  IS 

She  held  the  door  wide,  and  Minna  stood  aside  for 
Marie  to  enter. 

"I  have  brought  a  young  lady,"  she  said,  "who 
wants  a  room  to  live  in.  I  told  her  I  thought  you 
might  have  a  place  for  her." 

Their  hostess  pushed  forward  a  chair  for  Marie 
and  motioned  Minna  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  she  said  hospitably,  "I'll 
get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  kuchen,  and  then  we  can 
talk,"  and  she  bustled  out  to  prepare  refreshments 
for  her  guests. 

Marie  glanced  about  the  neat  little  room.  Against 
the  walls  were  arranged  stiffly,  old-fashioned  black 
horsehair  chairs,  each  with  a  white  knitted  antima 
cassar  pinned  neatly  on  the  back.  In  the  window  a 
canary  fluted,  his  tiny  throat  swelling  with  ecstatic 
trills  as  he  swung  in  his  cage  over  the  shining  leaves 
of  a  little  rubber  tree.  Primly  in  its  corner  stood  the 
sofa,  place  of  honor,  where  Minna  now  sat,  her  holi 
day  finery  spread  out  about  her. 

On  the  tiny  mantel  stood  a  crowd  of  china  orna 
ments,  jolly  looking  little  dogs  with  huge  bows  about 
their  necks,  gilt  and  blue  shepherdesses,  very  small 
vases,  decorated  with  very  large  roses.  In  the  center, 
a  faded  photograph  of  an  empty-faced  little  girl  with 
two  blond  braids  over  her  shoulders,  stared  stiffly 
out  of  a  frame  made  of  sea  shells  and  dried  flowers 
twined  about  the  ornately  lettered  phrase,  "In  lie- 
bender  Erinnerung."  Marie,  reading  the  tender 
phrase,  smiled  wistfully.  No  one  was  so  plain  or  so 
unimportant  but  that  in  some  heart  they  were 
enshrined  "in  loving  memory." 


14  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

She  was  impressed  by  the  spotlessness  of  every 
thing.  She  found  herself  wondering,  if  each  little 
object  had  its  place  marked  on  the  shelf  so  that  it 
could  be  put  back  when  it  had  been  dusted. 

Over  the  mantel  hung  a  brilliantly  colored  chromo 
of  a  sad-eyed  Christ,  His  blue  robe  opened  at  the 
breast,  showing  a  gilt  and  bleeding  heart.  There 
were  two  or  three  other  religious  pictures,  but  every 
other  available  space  on  the  dingy  little  walls  was 
hung  with  photographs  of  the  same  empty-faced  little 
girl,  in  various  stages  of  growth. 

Old  Minna,  her  hands,  in  their  brown  thread  mit 
tens,  folded  in  her  lap,  sat  blinking  her  lashless  eye 
lids.  There  was  always  a  certain  dignified  manner 
which  accompanied  the  wearing  of  her  best  clothes, 
and  she  was  wrapped  in  it  to-day,  so  that  Marie 
scarcely  knew  her  for  the  same,  plain-spoken,  good 
humored  old  woman  who  had  taken  care  of  the  little 
house  in  the  Blumen  Strasse. 

Once  or  twice  the  girl  opened  her  lips  by  way  of 
starting  a  conversation,  but  closed  them  again  and 
relapsed  into  an  uneasy  silence,  suppressed  by  the 
majestic  dignity  of  the  old  housekeeper. 

Presently,  the  hostess  returned  with  a  tray,  which 
she  set  on  the  center  table,  first  having  carefully  re 
moved  the  lamp  and  a  large  embossed  album,  and 
folded  up  into  a  neat  square  the  red-fringed  cloth. 
There  was  coffee  in  a  highly  decorated  pot,  cups 
equally  ornate,  one  with  a  gilt  initial  on  its  side,  a 
plate  of  plain  cake,  with  a  richly  sugared  top,  and  a 
small  pitcher  of  milk. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  15 

"Now,"  she  said,  "while  we  have  our  coffee,  we  can 
talk.  Is  it  a  room  to  live  in,  you  want?" 

Marie  opened  her  lips  to  answer,  but  Minna 
broke  in. 

"The  Fraulein  is  the  daughter  of  my  poor  master, 
who  has  just  died,"  she  said.  The  little  old  woman 
shook  her  head  in  pity,  glancing  at  Marie  over  the 
edge  of  her  spectacles  like  a  bright-eyed  bird.  "She 
is  quite  poor  now,"  continued  the  housekeeper,  "ach, 
yes,  even  rich  folks  can  spend  all  their  money,  and 
now  she's  all  alone.  I  think  it  would  be  nice  for  you 
to  have  her  here." 

Their  hostess  tilted  her  chin  grotesquely  as  she 
eyed  the  girl  through  her  thick  glasses. 

"We  have  an  extra  room,  yes,  it  would  be  company 
for  me  while  Shatzi  is  away,"  and  then  quite  sud 
denly  she  turned  to  Minna.  "She  looks  like  Frieda," 
she  said  softly,  her  eyes  straying  mistily  to  the  many 
pictures  of  the  empty-faced  little  girl,  "she  can  stay 
with  us." 

Marie  smiled  at  her  gratefully,  glancing  somewhat 
dubiously  at  Frieda's  photograph.  This  would  be 
much  better  than  going  out  among  people  of  whom 
she  knew  nothing.  Herr  Gutman  was  to  attend  to 
the  selling  of  her  few  belongings.  Minna  could 
close  the  house  and  send  her  trunk.  She  would  go 
now  to  the  solicitor's  office  and  make  arrangements. 

Frau  Schultz  showed  them  the  little  room  she  was 
to  occupy.  There  was  a  narrow  yellowish  wooden 
bed  in  it,  with  a  starched  counterpane  and  a  stiffly 
frilled  pillow  sham  across  which  was  embroidered  in 
red,  "Guten  Morgen."  Over  the  yellow  wooden 


16  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

dresser  hung  a  cheap  mirror.  The  glass  was  wavy 
and  blotched  in  places  where  the  mercury  had  worn 
away.  Marie  wondered,  as  she  saw  the  distorted  re 
flection  of  herself,  if  the  compliment  Frau  Schultz 
had  paid  her  had  been  deserved.  A  small  chair  com 
pleted  the  furnishings,  excepting  a  small  plaster  figure 
of  the  Virgin  against  the  wall,  with  a  holy  water 
stoup  under  it.  It  was  a  tiny  cupboard  of  a  place, 
but  neat  and  spotless.  Marie  stood  and  looked  down 
from  the  small  window  into  the  courtyard  onto  which 
it  gave.  Between  the  houses  hung  rows  of  freshly 
washed  linen,  all  manner  of  garments  swinging  in 
shameless  abandon,  but  the  courtyard,  though  barren 
and  unattractive,  was  scrupulously  clean.  She 
thought  of  the  cool  sweetness  of  the  garden  she  was 
leaving,  of  the  old  locust  tree  and  its  falling  blossoms, 
the  comfortable  wicker  chair  in  which  her  father  used 
to  sit  through  the  sunny  mornings.  She  turned  away 
with  a  sigh,  her  heart  heavy,  a  lump  rising  in  her 
throat.  Frau  Schultz,  standing  at  her  elbow,  peered 
at  her  with  her  bird-like  eyes,  and  the  girl  felt 
instinctively  that  she  had  found  some  one  who  would 
be  kind. 

She  broached  the  price  shyly,  timidly  it  was  ac 
quiesced  in  by  Frau  Schultz,  and  decisively  settled 
by  the  capable  Minna. 

Then  they  went  back  into  the  little  parlor  again, 
and  to  the  accompaniment  of  Hanzi,  the  canary's, 
operatic  warblings,  Minna  had  two  more  cups  of 
coffee  and  another  piece  of  kuchen.  Then,  brushing 
the  crumbs  from  her  *mple  lap,  she  rose  to  go. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  17 

"I'll  send  your  trunk  right  away,  Fraulein,"  she 
said. 

"When  can  I  come  to  stay?"  Marie  asked  timidly. 

"As  soon  as  you  wish,  Fraulein,"  said  Frau 
Schultz  hospitably.  "You  can  stay  now  if  you 
want  to.  We  are  very  simple  people.  You  are  like 
our  Frieda.  We'll  watch  over  you." 

Marie  explained  that  she  must  go  to  the  solicitor's 
office  and  arrange  her  affairs,  and  that  she  would  be 
back  as  soon  as  she  could,  to  stay,  so  with  many  ex 
changes  of  hearty  good  will  between  Minna  and  Frau 
Schultz,  and  the  promise  of  care  for  Marie,  they 
started  down  the  dark  stair  again,  Minna  to  go  back 
to  the  house  to  close  it,  Marie  to  arrange  about  the 
source  of  her  hundred  kronen. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  first  few  weeks  in  her  new  home  were  not  so 
unpleasant  as  Marie  had  anticipated.  Frau  Schultz 
and  her  good  husband  took  the  girl  under  their  wing, 
and  in  their  simple  kindly  way,  tried  to  help  her  fit 
herself  to  her  new  environment. 

After  all,  it  is  only  the  transition  period  that  is 
difficult  for  any  of  us  to  live  through.  We  adjust 
ourselves  rapidly  to  the  life  that  lies  on  either  side 
of  it,  but  in  that  short  span  between  what  was  and 
what  is  to  be,  lies  our  keenest  sorrow  and  suffering. 

After  the  first  hard  wrench  that  carried  her  out 
of  the  little  house  in  the  Blumen  Strasse  into  these 
very  different  surroundings,  Marie  began  to  enjoy 
the  companionship  of  the  old  couple. 

Herr  Schultz,  Shatzi,  as  his  wife  called  him,  played 
the  piano  in  a  cafe  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of 
the  city.  He  was  a  heavy,  rather  stupid  old  man, 
who  had  lived  his  life  pounding  out  indifferent  music 
on  cafe  pianos.  His  round,  prominent  eyes  looked 
out  into  the  world  with  a  mild  wonder.  His  thick 
gray  hair  was  rough  and  unkempt,  and  his  shabby 
clothes  kept  his  neat  wife  busy  brushing  away  the 
spots  which,  in  spite  of  her  vigilance,  would  persist 
in  garnishing  them.  His  heavy  mouth  always  wore 
a  half-childish  smile,  and  his  manner  was  one  of 
apology  for  his  very  existence,  but  his  little  wife,  with 
her  wrinkled  face,  her  sharp  old  eyes,  lived  only  for 
him.  At  first  Marie  wondered,  but  she  came  to  under- 

18 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  19 

stand  that  no  man  can  be  so  utterly  devoid  of  attrac 
tion,  but  that  some  woman  will  love  him. 

These  simple  people  took  the  girl  to  their  hearts. 
They  were  staunch  socialists  who  believed  firmly  in 
the  tenets  of  their  order,  still  they  realized  that  the 
accident  of  birth  which  had  placed  them  in  the  social 
status  in  which  they  lived,  made  them  not  inferior, 
but  different  from  those  who  occupied  a  higher 
stratum  of  society.  They  had  not  failed  to  observe 
the  difference  between  Marie  and  themselves,  yet  it 
was  not  in  the  least  an  obstacle  to  the  mutual  respect 
and  love  which  increased  as  the  days  passed. 

Their  own  daughter,  whose  photograph  was  omni 
present,  they  had  lost  years  before.  Frau  Schultz, 
whose  fond,  though  mistaken  imagination  had  seen 
a  resemblance  in  Marie's  blond  prettiness  to  the 
plain  Frieda,  pointed  it  out  to  her  husband,  who, 
always  ready  to  acquiesce  with  her  opinions,  eagerly 
agreed. 

The  tiny  flat,  with  its  old-fashioned  furniture,  with 
Hanzi,  the  canary,  singing  in  his  cage,  and  the  shin 
ing  leaves  of  the  little  rubber  tree  in  the  corner,  came 
to  mean  home  to  Marie. 

The  furnishings  of  her  father's  house  realized  less 
than  Herr  Gutmann  had  anticipated.  While  the 
money  lasted,  Marie  busied  herself  helping  Frau 
Schultz  about  her  duties  and  sewing  buttons  on  the 
shirts  which  the  thrifty  little  woman  made  to  eke 
out  the  scanty  exchequer. 

In  her  inexperience,  she  had  believed  that  the  world 
was  made  up  of  people  like  her  father  and  the  nuns 
at  the  convent.  People  who  were  kind  and  thought- 


20  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

ful,  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  others,  each  man 
ready  and  willing  to  help  his  weaker  brother.  The 
splendor  and  riches  that  sparkled  along  the  boule 
vards,  the  fertile  fields,  with  their  bounteous  harvests 
that  spread  about  the  convent,  this  was  the  world  to 
her.  She  had  no  realization  that  there  might  be 
people  who  could  have  no  share  in  all  this.  She  had 
supposed  that  she  would  always  be  surrounded  by  the 
comforts  of  a  home  such  as  the  little  house  in  the 
Blumcn  Strasse.  The  sudden  awakening  out  of  this 
pleasing  supposition,  had  left  her  dazed,  breathless, 
as  one  would  feel  when  a  supposedly  secure  shelter 
had  been  suddenly  shattered  by  wanton  hands. 

Although  Marie's  education  at  the  convent  had 
given  her  no  definite  training  for  earning  her  living, 
still  she  was  not  without  an  inherent  quality  of  cour 
age,  that  dogged  something  that  had  made  her 
father  go  on  with  his  life  when  his  heart  was  in  the 
grave.  With  her  natural  timidity,  she  shrank  from 
contact  with  the  world  of  which  she  knew  so  little, 
but  the  realization  that  her  money  was  fast  dwindling 
away,  warned  her  that  a  means  of  augmenting  her 
slender  resources,  must  be  found.  Mentally  shut 
ting  her  eyes,  and  gulping  as  a  child  does  before 
taking  a  dose  of  bitter  medicine,  she  faced  the 
situation. 

Herr  Gutmann  managed  to  get  two  pupils  for  her. 
Twice  a  week,  Marie  went  to  teach  them  the  scales. 

One  was  the  small  daughter  of  a  rich  brewer.  She 
was  a  delicate,  weak-eyed  child,  without  any  initia 
tive  or  interest  in  anything.  She  always  seemed  to 
Marie  like  a  pale  spot  in  the  gloom  of  the  huge 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  21 

drawing-room.  Her  thin  legs,  dangling  down  from 
the  music  bench  seemed  ever  to  be  seeking  a  resting- 
place,  and  her  transparent  fingers  played  the  scales 
in  a  tinkling,  apologetic  way,  making  the  same  mis 
takes  in  the  same  places,  lesson  after  lesson.  When 
Marie's  patience  gave  out,  which  was  seldom,  for  she 
loved  children  and  even  had  a  spark  of  affection  for 
this  unresponsive  little  creature,  the  pale  eyes  would 
blink  at  her  uncomprehendingly,  and  the  thin  fingers 
would  tinkle  out  the  same  mistakes  in  the  same  way. 

Her  other  pupil  was  a  boy  of  eleven,  a  square,  flat- 
faced  youngster  who  hated  the  lessons  and  spent  his 
time  between  them  in  devising  methods  of  annoyance 
for  his  patient  teacher.  He  was  never  happier  than 
when,  with  both  feet  on  the  pedals  he  would  come 
crashing  down  on  the  keys,  till  poor  Marie  held  her 
ears  in  terror,  for  the  boy's  mother  was  nervous  and 
abhorred  noise  of  any  kind,  and  each  lesson  ended 
in  the  servant  bringing  word  that  the  Gnadige  Frau 
could  not  be  disturbed  any  longer. 

But  even  for  these  two  pupils,  Marie  was  grateful. 
The  money  she  earned,  she  put  away  to  be  used  when 
her  own  supply  should  have  vanished. 

The  sum  in  the  savings-box  was  still  pitifully  small, 
when  one  day  the  servant,  coming  in  with  the  usual 
message  about  the  Gnadige  Fran's  nervousness,  added 
that  the  noise  disturbed  her,  so  that  in  the  future, 
she  would  be  obliged  to  have  the  lessons  discontinued. 
With  an  extra  crash  on  the  long-suffering  piano  keys, 
the  square-faced  youngster  announced  that  he  was 
glad,  that  he  hated  music,  he  hated  teachers,  hated 


22  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

everything  in  general  and  Marie  in  particular,  and 
bounced  out  of  the  room. 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  staring  blankly  at 
the  servant  who  grinned  as  she  held  the  door  open 
for  her.  She  could  hear  the  thumping  footsteps  of 
her  pupil  as  he  bounded  up  the  stair,  and  his  voice 
came  down  to  her  shouting  his  joy  at  the  dismissal 
of  the  hated  teacher. 

Her  heart  sank  as  she  went  down  the  steps  into 
the  street.  There  was  still  the  pale-eyed  child,  how 
ever,  and  the  money  left  by  her  father  was  not  yet 
quite  exhausted,  why  let  this  curt  dismissal  prey  on 
her  so?  She  squared  her  shoulders  and  lifted  her 
chin.  Things  hadn't  reached  their  worst  yet. 

It  was  raining  a  sad  sort  of  drizzle  that  made  it 
difficult  to  be  cheerful,  and  it  was  with  a  vague  fore 
boding  that  she  turned  into  the  street  where  the  other 
pupil  lived,  and  rang  the  bell  of  the  big  house. 

The  man  servant  who  let  her  in,  took  her  umbrella 
and  threw  open  the  door  of  the  gloomy  room.  She 
missed  the  apologetic  tinkle  of  the  scales  which  usually 
came  from  somewhere  out  of  the  distance.  Her  eyes 
growing  accustomed  to  the  semi-darkness,  she  saw 
the  pale-eyed  child  sitting  at  the  piano,  her  dangling 
feet  groping  for  a  resting-place,  her  thin  hands  idle 
on  the  keys.  When  the  man  had  closed  the  door,  the 
child  slid  from  the  piano  bench. 

"Fraulein,"  she  said,  "I  don't  have  to  take  any 
lesson  to-day,  the  doctor  says  it  is  bad  for  my  eyes." 

Marie  paused  in  her  task  of  unrolling  her  music. 

"When  shall  I  come  then  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,"  and  there  was  a  quick  note  of  pleasure  in 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  23 

the  colorless  little  voice  which  hurt  the  girl  to  hear, 
"I  don't  have  to  take  any  more  lessons  at  all.  Here's 
a  note  from  mamma,"  and  she  handed  her  a  small 
white  envelope. 

Marie  took  it  with  trembling  fingers.  She  opened 
the  note  and  found  it  to  be  a  formal  one  of  dismissal 
on  account  of  the  child's  health.  It  enclosed  a  small 
sum  still  due. 

Marie  walked  home  through  the  rain.  Surely  this 
great  world  that  she  had  seen  stretch  away  in  such 
fertile  fields  from  the  convent  windows,  had  enough  to 
spare  for  one  girl  who  wanted  so  little.  The  uneven 
distribution  of  material  things  had  never  touched  her 
before.  Now  she  was  beginning  to  realize  that  there 
were  those  who  had  more  than  they  could  use,  and 
yet  held  tightly  to  it  all.  How  few  there  were  like 
the  father  whom  she  had  lost,  whose  religion  it  had 
been  to  share  with  his  fellow  men. 

She  climbed  the  long  flights  to  the  little  Schultz 
flat,  disheartened.  Her  landlady's  sharp  eyes  took  in 
the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"Both  of  them  stopping,  Fraulein?"  she  asked, 
"never  mind,  drink  your  coffee  and  to-morrow  you 
can  find  others."  Her  optimism  stilled  Marie's  fears 
and  as  she  sipped  the  steaming  beverage  and  munched 
the  cake  Frau  Schultz  was  noted  for,  she  planned 
how  she  would  find  other  pupils. 

And  now  began  long  days  of  seeking  for  something 
into  which  her  poor  little  convent-learned  accom 
plishments  would  fit. 

But  nobody  seemed  to  want  to  study  music.  Her 
French  was  nearly  perfect,  the  good  nuns  at  the 


24  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Sacred  Heart  had  seen  to  that.  She  tried  to  find 
some  one  who  wished  to  learn,  but  though  it  happened 
that  just  then  the  study  of  the  French  language  was 
very  popular  in  Vienna,  everyone  wanted  a  Mademoi 
selle  from  Paris. 

She  knew  a  little  singing,  a  little  drawing ;  a  little, 
but  not  enough  of  anything.  Her  drawing,  she  tried 
to  utilize,  but  no  one  wanted  to  learn  the  gentle  art 
of  sketching  in  water  colors  or  making  dainty  pen 
drawings.  The  time  had  gone  by  for  that,  there  were 
too  many  art  schools  where  one  could  learn  to  paint 
boldly  from  the  nude,  in  garish  colors,  futurist 
canvasses. 

How  many  others  were  trying  as  she  was  trying. 
How  much  more  competition  than  things  for  which 
to  compete.  This  world,  that  seen  from  the  convent 
windows,  had  seemed  all  peaceful  fields,  green  and 
tranquil,  that  had  given  her  kindness  and  comfort  in 
her  father's  house,  what  a  different  aspect  it  wore, 
now  that  she  had  stepped  down  from  her  sheltered 
nook. 

To  Marie,  facing  it  like  a  timid  hare  brought  to 
bay,  it  seemed  like  a  pack  of  snarling  hounds,  quar 
reling  over  bones  thrown  from  some  more  fortunate 
table,  wrangling  and  fighting,  climbing  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  each  other,  ruthlessly  trampling  down  th'e 
weaker.  She  was  frightened,  yet  filled  with  a  bitter 
wonder  that  here,  suffering  was  not  only  a  possibility, 
but  a  certainty. 

The  pillow  on  her  little  yellow  bed  was  soaked 
with  many  tears,  frightened,  disappointed  tears,  and 
still,  through  it  all  the  thoughtfulness  and  gen- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  25 

erosity  of  these  two  old  people  with  whom  she  made 
her  home,  kept  alive  in  her  heart  faith  in  human 
nature.  They  had  so  little  and  yet  that  little  was 
divided  gladly  with  one  less  fortunate  than  they. 

The  year  was  nearly  gone  now  and  so  was  the 
money.  Soon  she  would  have  to  supply  herself  from 
the  small  box  of  savings,  and  after  that,  she  dared 
not  think.  She  could  not  be  a  burden  to  these  kindly 
people,  knowing,  as  she  did,  that  there  was  scarcely 
enough  for  themselves,  and  that,  only,  with  the  help 
of  what  she  was  paying  for  her  tiny  room. 

One  evening,  Herr  Schultz  came  home  with  the 
announcement  that  there  was  a  chance  for  her  if  she 
cared  to  take  it,  singing  in  the  little  cafe  where  he 
played. 

"The  salary  is  very  small,  Fraulein,"  he  said,  "but 
I  shall  be  there  to  bring  you  home  each  night,  and 
your  voice  is  not  a  bad  one." 

Marie  loathed  the  very  thought  of  doing  such  a 
thing,  but  she  dared  not  refuse  with  a  knowledge  of 
her  ever-dwindling  funds,  and  the  danger  of  at  last 
living  on  the  Schultz's  bounty,  so  it  was  decided 
that  she  was  to  go  with  the  old  man  the  next  day  and 
apply  for  the  position. 

"Have  you  a  pretty  dress,  Marie?"  asked  Herr 
Schultz.  "You  will  have  to  wear  something  with  no 
neck  or  sleeves." 

Marie  made  a  mental  inventory  of  her  wardrobe. 
There  was  a  simple  frock  that  could  be  arranged,  so 
she  nodded.  The  old  man  rubbed  his  hands. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "come  and  sing  some  of  the  Schu 
bert  Lieder,  or  perhaps  a  little  Grieg." 


26  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Her  voice  was  a  small  high  soprano,  with  a  very 
sweet  note  in  it,  and  her  natural  appreciation  for  all 
that  was  beautiful  and  tender,  gave  her  singing  an 
appealing  quality  that  more  than  compensated  for  its 
lack  of  volume. 

The  old  man  was  delighted. 

"Good !"  he  said.  "We  go  to-morrow,"  and  Frau 
Schultz  nodded  approval,  as  she  threaded  a  needle, 
her  small  head  on  one  side,  the  bird-like  eyes  squinting 
at  her  work. 

The  cafe  or  tingle-tangle  where  old  Schultz  played, 
was  one  of  the  sort  the  outside  world  referred  to  as 
Bohemian,  tucked  away  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
city.  The  proprietor  was  an  oily-faced  man  whose 
good  humor  depended  entirely  upon  the  amount  of 
patronage  his  house  received. 

He  nodded  to  old  Schultz  and  looked  Marie  over 
appraisingly.  He  noted  with  approval  her  blue  eyes 
and  delicate  features.  The  mourning  frock,  for  she 
still  wore  black,  set  off  the  gold  of  her  hair. 

"Sing  for  me,"  he  said,  and  to  Schultz's  accom 
paniment  and  with  her  heart  pounding,  Marie  sang. 

"H'm,"  grunted  the  proprietor,  "the  voice  will  do, 
but  Gott,  those  songs,  do  you  think  this  is  a  church? 
Find  something  lively,  something  gay,  a  bit — you 
know,"  and  the  girl  felt  her  face  flush  at  his  tone. 

She  was  about  to  say  she  couldn't,  but  she  thought 
of  the  little  that  stood  between  her  and  starvation, 
and  that  not  only  she,  but  the  good  people  with  whom 
she  lived,  needed  this  position,  so  swallowing  hard, 
she  said  she  would  try. 

"And  your  dress,"  the  proprietor  called  after  them 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  27 

as  she  and  the  old  man  were  leaving,  "mind  you  put 
some  dash  in  it!" 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  soothed  Schultz,  when  they 
were  walking  down  the  street  together,  "don't  mind, 
kleinchen,  I'll  be  there  to  take  care  of  you.  We'll 
go  now  and  pick  out  some  songs,  and  to-night  the 
good  Frau  will  help  you  fix  up  the  dress." 

They  went  into  a  music  shop,  in  the  window  of 
which  hung  a  gaudy  display  of  popular  music.  With 
the  help  of  an  anaemic  youth  who  stood  behind  the 
counter  and  ogled  Marie,  they  selected  four  or  five, 
and  having  paid  for  them  out  of  her  slender  purse, 
they  started  home.  All  that  afternoon  they  went 
over  the  songs,  the  old  man  explaining  to  her  how 
she  must  sing  them,  with  more  dash,  more  life,  and 
the  girl  going  over  them  patiently. 

"Can't  I  put  in  one  of  the  Schubert  songs?"  she 
begged.  "Just  so  I  won't  feel  so  terribly  away  from 
myself?"  and  after  a  good  deal  of  debate,  they  set 
tled  on  "Impatience,"  trusting  that  its  swift- 
rung  cadence  might  make  up  for  its  very  evident 
incongruity  to  the  surroundings. 

All  evening,  Frau  Schultz  and  Marie  pulled  and 
snipped  and  sewed  at  the  simple  frock,  trying  to 
arrange  it  so  as  to  please  her  new  employer,  and 
when  at  last  the  girl  stood  before  the  little  mirror 
and  looked  at  her  reflection,  she  was  startled  at  the 
change  she  saw.  Her  slender  arms  were  white,  even 
against  the  white  of  the  gown,  and  her  almost  childish 
throat  and  young  bosom  with  its  delicate  curves 
looked  very  lovely  where  the  lace  fell  away.  She  had 
piled  her  hair  high  on  her  head,  and  the  good  Frau, 


28  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

after  searching  among  her  belongings,  had  unearthed 
an  old-fashioned  high  comb  which  she  had  insisted 
upon  her  wearing. 

"You  look  very  sweet,"  she  said,  "to-morrow  you'll 
win  every  one's  heart." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  that,"  sighed  Marie.  "It's  a 
horrid  place,  really  Frau  Schultz,  but  I  must  do  my 
best.  That  means  a  lot  to  all  of  us,  doesn't  it?" 

The  good  little  woman  kissed  her. 

"There,  there,"  she  said,  "if  things  don't  go  right, 
you  must  not  worry.  Shatzi  and  I  are  always  here. 
Now  go  to  bed,"  and  with  a  kind  little  pat,  she  took 
the  lamp  and  left  her,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

For  a  long  time  Marie  sat  and  looked  at  the  girl 
in  the  mirror.  What  would  be  the  outcome  of  this 
venture,  she  wondered.  What  would  her  father  have 
said,  if  he  could  have  known.  If  she  could  have  looked 
ahead,  how  she  would  have  hated  the  little  white  dress 
that  she  laid  aside  so  carefully,  how  she  would  have 
hated  the  old-fashioned  comb,  which  she  drew  out  to 
permit  her  wonderful  hair  to  come  tumbling  about 
her  shoulders. 

What  an  all  wise  Providence  it  is  that  has  made 
us  blind  to  what  lies  before  us !  How  few  would  have 
the  courage  to  go  on  if  they  could  look  even  one  day 
ahead ! 

As  she  turned  down  her  lamp  and  slipped  into  bed, 
her  only  thought  was,  could  she  manage  to  keep  this 
place  that  had  come  to  her  when  she  so  much 
needed  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  "Two  Eagles"  was  one  of  those  little  cafes 
which  abound  in  Vienna;  good  beer,  music,  and  free 
dom;  the  rendezvous  of  students,  with  a  fair  sprink 
ling  of  the  military. 

To  Marie,  peeping  out  from  the  tiny,  none-too- 
clean  room,  they  had  given  her  to  dress  in,  it  seemed 
far  worse  than  it  really  was,  for  the  girl's  eyes  had 
only  looked  on  life  at  the  convent,  and  from  the  win 
dows  of  her  father's  house.  The  clicking  of  the  steins 
on  the  bare  tables,  the  rough  voices  of  the  waiters  as 
they  hurried  back  and  forth,  the  scraping  of  chairs 
on  the  sanded  floor,  the  floating  layers  of  blue  smoke 
through  which  the  lights  blurred,  the  students  with 
their  wide  black  ties  and  unkempt  hair,  with  here  and 
there  a  splash  of  color  where  some  officers  sat  sprawled 
about  a  table.  This  was  a  world  of  which  she  had 
never  dreamed,  and  she  shrank  instinctively  from  its 
cheap  tawdriness.  Through  it  all,  breaking  out  in 
shrill  peals,  or  suppressed  giggles,  came  the  laughter 
of  women.  Laughter  more  than  anything  is  indica 
tive  of  caste,  and  this  coarse  mirth  was  strange  to 
Marie's  ears. 

Away  at  the  far  end,  was  the  platform  on  which 
Herr  Schultz  was  playing  the  piano,  with  a  white- 
faced,  wizened  young  man  beside  him,  scraping  on  a 
violin. 

How  was  she  to  get  there?  The  time  had  come. 
One  of  the  greasy  waiters  had  just  knocked  at  her 


30  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

door  and  told  her  they  were  ready,  but  the  route  lay 
in  and  out  among  those  many  tables,  those  staring 
faces.  She  never  knew  how  she  reached  the  platform. 
She  was  keenly  conscious  of  the  scraping  of  her  shoes 
on  the  sanded  floor,  and  of  the  voices  about  her. 

One  woman  laughed  in  a  sneering  way  as  she  passed 
her  table,  and  her  companion  reached  out  and  tried 
to  grab  Marie's  hand.  In  pulling  away,  she  almost 
fell  over  the  shining  boot  of  a  young,  round-faced 
officer,  a  boot  which  had  been  thrust  in  her  way  pur 
posely,  and  whose  owner  roared  with  mirth  at  her 
terrible  confusion.  She  was  vaguely  conscious  of  an 
older  man  at  his  side,  at  whose  sharp  word  the  offend 
ing  boot  was  withdrawn.  As  she  passed,  here  and 
there  rough  voices  flung  appraising  phrases  at  her, 
that  sent  the  blood  flaming  into  her  cheeks. 

But  after  what  seemed  an  interminable  journey, 
she  at  last  reached  the  little  platform  and  the  shelter 
of  Herr  Schultz's  side. 

"Never  mind,  child,"  whispered  the  kindly  old  man, 
"you'll  grow  used  to  it  all.  What  shall  we  sing  first?" 

Marie's  heart  was  in  her  throat.  She  felt  as 
though  she  never  should  be  able  to  even  speak,  to 
sing  was  an  impossibility.  The  white-faced  violinist 
murmured  an  encouraging  word.  Herr  Schultz 
patted  her  arm,  his  weak  mouth  tremulous  with  reas 
suring  smiles. 

She  told  herself  that  she  was  in  no  way  a  part  of 
this  cheap,  vulgar  place.  It  need  not  touch  her.  She 
was  there  to  sing,  to  earn  her  living.  Her  cheeks 
burned,  but  she  swallowed  bravely,  and  as  Herr 
Schultz  struck  the  opening  chords,  she  turned  and 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  31 

faced  the  room,  which  seemed  to  swim  in  the  blue  haze 
of  the  tobacco  smoke.  Before  her  eyes  was  a  blur  of 
black  and  white,  with  here  and  there  a  spot  of  color 
made  by  some  soldier's  uniform.  Her  small,  sweet 
voice  trembled,  and  she  sang  the  rollicking  music-hall 
ditty,  as  though  it  were  a  sentimental  ballad,  but  she 
seemed  to  have  struck  the  vacuous  fancy  of  the  young 
officer,  over  whose  foot  she  had  tripped,  and  while 
her  voice  still  clung  to  the  last  note,  he  acclaimed  his 
approval. 

Indeed  she  seemed  to  have  pleased  the  majority  of 
her  audience,  who,  with  their  characteristic  love  of 
music,  applauded  vociferously,  pounding  on  the  tables 
with  their  beer  mugs  and  shouting  noisily. 

She  resumed  her  seat  with  the  pleasure  that  appre 
ciation,  from  no  matter  how  mean  a  source,  always 
brings. 

As  she  waited  while  the  old  man  turned  over  the 
music  before  beginning  another  song,  her  eyes  were 
caught  and  held  by  the  pale  blue  ones  of  the  young 
officer  who  had  started  the  applause.  She  felt  her 
face  grow  scarlet  under  his  gaze.  Some  intangible 
instinct  warned  her  of  danger,  but  she  was  grateful 
to  him  for  his  demonstration  of  approval,  so  she  tried 
to  force  her  trembling  lips  to  smile  her  thanks.  He 
was  quite  young,  his  pale  blond  hair  worn  stiff  in 
the  familiar  paint-brush  style,  was  almost  white 
against  his  flushed  forehead,  and  .his  full  lips  were 
very  red.  He  was  sprawled  in  his  chair  with  his  thick 
legs  in  their  tight  blue  trousers,  straight  out  before 
him,  his  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders.  The  man 
at  his  side  touched  him  quietly  on  the  arm  and  said 


32  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

a  few  words  which  Marie  could  not  catch.  The  youth 
pulled  himself  together  and  turned  once  more  to  the 
table  and  through  all  of  her  next  song,  which  was 
the  Schubert  one,  he  paid  no  more  heed  to  her.  Even 
at  its  conclusion,  he  did  not  vouchsafe  the  approba 
tion  he  had  given  her  at  first.  But  the  rest  of  the 
room  was  unanimous  in  their  praise. 

She  was  trembling.  She  had  pleased  them,  and  she 
was  so  anxious  to  please.  Herr  Schultz  looked  at 
her  proudly  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  struck  the  open 
ing  chords  for  the  white-faced  violinist,  who  smirked 
at  her. 

After  a  brief  rest,  she  rose  at  the  old  man's  nod, 
and  sang  again,  and  again,  till  her  throat  felt  tight, 
her  voice  grew  husky  and  her  eyes  smarted  with  the 
unaccustomed  tobacco  fumes.  But  her  audience  was 
insatiable. 

A  noisy  student  rapped  loudly  on  his  table  and 
called  for  yet  another  song.  His  companions  echoed 
the  command  and  leered  laughingly  into  her  face. 

From  another  table  in  a  corner,  a  fat,  oily  looking 
man  with  diamonds  on  his  fingers,  and  a  heavy  triple 
chin,  beckoned  to  her  with  what  he  must  have  thought 
was  an  ingratiating  smile.  But  the  woman  with  him, 
a  slim,  dark  little  creature,  with  thickly  rouged  lips 
and  cloudy  black  hair,  jerked  angrily  at  his  arm,  and 
he  swung  about  in  his  chair  so  that  Marie  saw  only 
his  great  back. 

B rower,  the  proprietor,  came  up  and  patted  her 
roughly  on  the  shoulder. 

"She  caught  on,  Schultz,"  he  wheezed  in  his  heavy 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  33 

voice,  that  was  habitually  hoarse  from  beer  and  to 
bacco  smoke.  "I  think  she'll  do !" 

She  had  succeeded,  objectionable  and  unpleasant 
as  these  surroundings  and  the  people  were.  She  had 
conquered,  she  had  overcome  the  harrowing  embar 
rassment  that  had  shocked  her  refined  nature.  She 
felt  a  certain  sense  of  pride  that  she  had  not  failed, 
that  she  had  not  been  vanquished  by  her  weaker  emo 
tions.  It  gave  her  more  confidence  in  herself.  If 
she  could  do  this,  she  could  do  other  things,  better, 
more  suited  to  her  temperament  and  ideals.  She 
would  endure  this  place  only  so  long  as  she  must,  and 
at  the  first  opportunity  of  a  better  position,  leave  it. 
Tired,  but  glad  that  for  the  immediate  future  at 
least  she  need  not  worry  about  the  fewness  of  the 
pennies  in  her  savings  box,  Marie  slipped  on  her  coat, 
and  clinging  to  old  Schultz's  arm,  trudged  happily 
home. 

After  a  few  days,  her  shyness  partly  left  her,  she 
was  more  at  ease,  more  sure  of  herself  and  the  appro 
val  of  her  personality  and  singing  was  even  more 
marked.  The  first  time,  the  room  had  only  been  a 
blur.  Her  self-consciousness  had  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  note  more  than  a  vague  outline,  but  now 
that  the  tension  had  relaxed  somewhat,  she  was  able 
to  distinguish  the  details  of  her  surroundings.  She 
began  to  see  here  and  there  a  beckoning  finger  that 
called  her  hospitably  to  share  its  owner's  table.  Some 
times  she  saw  the  angry  frown  and  quick  proprietory 
nudge  of  the  woman  who  accompanied  him  and  re 
sented  his  interest  in  the  little  singer.  She  began  to 
hear  her  name  called  in  a  familiar  diminutive,  as 


34 

groups  of  students  would  ask  for  favorite  songs. 
Secure  under  the  shelter  of  Herr  Schultz's  wing,  she 
smiled  her  thanks  from  the  platform. 

One  night,  she  stood  wrapped  in  her  cloak,  waiting 
for  her  guardian  as  he  gathered  up  his  music.  The 
last  guest  was  leaving  beerily,  and  the  greasy  waiters 
were  going  about  turning  out  the  lights  and  mop 
ping  up  the  splashed  tables. 

Brower  came  heavily  up  to  the  platform.  He 
looked  at  Marie  with  an  unpleasant  grin. 

"Tired,  Fraulein?"  he  asked,  "never  mind,  you'll 
be  home  in  a  little  while.  You've  done  very  well! 
But  to-morrow,  I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  my  friends." 

Herr  Schultz,  without  turning,  stopped  in  his  task 
of  gathering  the  sheets  of  music,  and  the  proprietor 
went  on. 

"To-morrow  I  want  you  to  pay  a  few  visits  among 
the  tables.  Remember,  the  more  we  sell  to  drink,  the 
more  you  are  worth  to  me." 

Schultz  turned  quickly,  his  heavy  eyebrows  drawn 
together  in  a  frown,  his  weak  mouth  working 
tremulously. 

"The  Fraulein  is  only  here  to  sing,"  he  said,  his 
voice  shaking,  "she  does  not  go  down  among  the 
tables." 

"What  have  you  got  to  say?"  thundered  Brower, 
"If  you  don't  like  the  way  this  place  is  run,  you  can 
go !  There  are  plenty  of  piano-players !" 

Marie  looked  on  in  terror,  only  half  understanding. 
Her  face  went  white  as  she  realized  what  this  would 
mean. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  begged,  "if  he  goes  I  must  go." 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  35 

This  was  not  what  Brower  wanted.  The  girl  had 
really  been  a  profitable  investment.  His  clientele  was 
pleased.  New  people  were  beginning  to  come.  More 
money  was  being  spent.  Allowances  must  be  made. 

"Look  here,  Schultz,"  he  growled,  "everything  will 
be  all  right,  she  needn't  drink,  I  only  want  her  to  go 
about  and  be  pleasant.  You're  here  where  you  can 
watch  her." 

In  Schultz's  faithful  breast,  the  knowledge  of  what 
it  would  mean  at  his  age,  to  lose  his  position,  strug 
gled  with  his  fear  for  Marie.  Brower  was  right, 
there  were  so  many  piano-players,  but  he  knew  well 
what  this  sort  of  thing  led  to.  He  had  seen  it  so 
often. 

"She  can't  go  down  among  the  tables,"  he  repeated 
doggedly. 

Brower  struggled  between  rage  and  cupidity.  He 
would  gladly  have  kicked  the  old  man  into  the  street, 
but  the  source  of  income  which  the  girl  meant,  must 
not  be  lost. 

"All  right,"  he  shrugged,  and  for  the  time,  the 
matter  was  dropped. 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  night,  as  she  waited  between  songs,  Marie  let 
her  eyes  wander  about  the  smoke-filled  room  and 
wondered,  as  she  heard  the  occasional  bursts  of  laugh 
ter,  if  these  people  who  came  here  voluntarily  were 
really  enjoying  life.  She  wondered  if  this  meant 
happiness  to  them. 

The  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  which  had  been 
learned  in  the  convent  and  at  home  with  her  father, 
seemed  so  absolutely  apart  from  what  surrounded  her 
now,  that  she  had  not  even  a  means  of  comparison. 
This  was  simply  different. 

The  young  officer  over  whose  boot  she  had  stumbled 
that  first  night,  was  sitting  sullenly  at  the  table  near 
her,  and  her  glance  wandered  from  him  to  the  man 
at  his  elbow,  the  same  who  had  reprimanded  him 
for  his  rudeness. 

He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  older  than  the  boy  at  his 
side,  and  wore  the  handsome  uniform  of  a  captain  of 
cavalry.  She  was  impressed  by  the  straight,  unbend 
ing  attitude  of  his  shoulders.  The  thin,  hard  mouth 
of  the  supersensualist  somehow  frightened  her, 
although  she  was  too  inexperienced  to  know  why.  She 
was  trying  to  analyze  this  fear,  this  aversion  for  a 
stranger,  when  she  became  conscious  that  he  was 
staring  at  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  stared  back 
fascinated  into  the  brilliant  eyes  that  held  her  own 
even  against  her  will.  With  an  effort,  she  turned 

86 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  37 

away  hastily,  and  busied  herself  with  the  piece  of 
music  she  was  holding. 

Several  times  during  the  evening,  she  was  conscious 
of  those  magnetic  eyes  which  she  avoided  with  a 
curious  flutter  at  her  heart.  She  had  taken  her  seat 
beside  the  piano,  when  she  saw  Brower  standing  at 
the  edge  of  the  platform,  beckoning  to  her. 

Hesitatingly,  she  rose  and  went  to  him. 

"Fraulein,"  he  said  with  his  oily  smile,  "my  wife 
is  here  with  some  friends.  We  want  you  to  join  us 
for  a  little  while." 

Schultz  swung  around  on  the  piano  stool. 

"No,"  he  said,  emphatically. 

Brower  shot  him  a  glance  charged  with  venom,  a 
burst  of  rage  trembling  on  his  lips,  which  he  con 
trolled  with  an  effort. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  he  growled.  "My  wife  wants 
to  meet  her.  Anything  wrong  with  that?" 

There  was  the  look  in  Schultz's  eyes  of  a  faithful 
dog  which  cannot  express  the  love  it  feels. 

"She  should  not "  he  began,  "she " 

Brower  turned  to  Marie. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come,  Fraulein?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  was  pathetically  eager  to  give  a  sufficient 
measure  of  service  for  the  compensation  she  received. 

"I'll  go,"  she  said,  timidly. 

Brower's  wife  was  a  large,  boldly  handsome  woman 
of  about  thirty-five.  She  had  been  a  very  pretty 
girl,  and  in  spite  of  the  artificial  yellow  of  her  care 
fully  dressed  hair,  the  over-red  of  her  lips,  the  paint 
on  her  cheeks,  she  still  bore  some  traces  of  her 
vanished  beauty.  She  blazed  with  jewels  which  were 


88  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

obviously  not  all  that  their  glitter  proclaimed.  To 
the  observer  it  was  very  apparent  that  everything 
about  her  was  a  sham.  It  was  even  whispered  that 
her  marriage  came  under  the  same  heading. 

She  greeted  Marie  with  an  over-effusiveness. 

"Do  sit  down,  Liebchen.  My  friends  all  like  your 
singing  so  much."  With  a  wave  of  her  plump,  be- 
jeweled  hand,  she  introduced  the  others  at  her  table. 
"Herr  Kranz,  meet  Fraulein  Helmar ;  Herr  Schnitzer, 
Fraulein  Pragt." 

Marie  slipped  into  the  chair  Brower  pulled  out 
for  her. 

"I  certainly  like  your  singing,  Fraulein,"  boomed 
Herr  Kranz,  in  a  voice  that  Marie  felt  certain  must 
penetrate  to  every  corner  of  the  room;  "but  I  like 
you  better,"  and  he  smiled  a  broad  smile,  that  lifted 
his  heavy  black  mustache  and  showed  an  uneven  row 
of  discolored  teeth.  His  prominent  eyes  took  in  her 
slender  prettiness  with  an  evident  relish,  and  his  thick 
bull-neck  settled  consciously  into  his  collar  as  he 
pulled  down  a  brilliant  vest  over  his  round  paunch. 

The  other  man  who  had  been  introduced  as  Herr 
Schnitzer,  was  stoop-shouldered  and  pale  haired.  His 
prominent  Adam's  apple  slid  up  and  down  gro 
tesquely  as  he  ate  the  cheese  sandwich  that  was 
before  him. 

"We  like  little  blond  singers,"  he  said  with  his 
mouth  full,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  fatuously  on  Frau 
lein  Pragt  who  simpered  coyly.  She  was  over-dressed, 
and  over-plump,  her  empty,  common  face  shone  fair 
and  bland,  and  her  silly  little  red  mouth  was 
always  half  open. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  39 

Marie  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  feeling 
half  of  disgust,  and  half  of  pride  in  herself  that  she 
was  different. 

B rower  patted  her  familiarly  on  the  shoulder  as 
he  hailed  a  passing  waiter. 

"Fritz,  bring  Fraulein  Helmar  a  sandwich  and 
some  beer,"  and  he  moved  away  to  another  table. 

"Nothing  for  me,  please,"  began  Marie. 

"Come,  Herzchen,  just  a  little  something!  One 
glass  of  beer,"  urged  her  hostess. 

"I  don't  wish  anything,  thank  you,"  said  Marie, 
with  quiet  finality. 

Frau  Brower  laughed  loudly. 

"No  wonder  you're  so  thin,"  she  said,  "a  little  more 
flesh  on  your  bones  wouldn't  hurt  you,  Fraulein." 

Kranz  leaned  toward  her  admiringly. 

"You're  young  yet,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  just  right 
in  a  year  or  so,"  and  he  put  a  moist  hand  over  hers. 

Marie  shrank  away,  and  Frau  Brower  laughed 
again  offensively. 

"She  should  have  a  sweetheart,  Kranz,  that's  what 
she  needs,"  she  said.  "Have  you  got  one,  Liebchen?" 

Marie's  face  flushed. 

"No,"  she  said. 

There  was  something  about  this  girl's  manner  Frau 
Brower  resented.  She  experienced  the  feeling  all 
women  of  her  type  do,  in  the  presence  of  one  who  is 
everything  they  are  not.  What  right  had  she,  a  little 
singer  in  Brewer's  cafe,  to  give  herself  airs?  She'd 
put  her  in  her  proper  place. 

"Can't  you  get  one?"  she  sneered. 

Marie  lifted  her  head  proudly. 


40  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"I  don't  believe  I  want  one,"  she  said  simply.  "I'm 
here  to  sing,  I  haven't  time  for  anything  else !" 

Kranz  was  eyeing  her  with  open  admiration,  his 
prominent,  dull  eyes,  looking  ludicrously  like  a  fish's. 
The  other  two  were  deep  in  a  conversation  that  con 
sisted  mainly  of  guttural  monosyllables  from 
Schnitzer  and  conscious  giggles  from  Fraulein  Pragt. 

Frau  Brower  looked  at  her  insolently. 

"I  advise  you  to  drop  that  stand-offish  manner. 
It  won't  pay  here.  A  fesches  Mtidel  like  you  ought  to 
have  a  dozen  lovers!  I'm  going  to  bring  a  friend 
around  to  meet  you !" 

Marie  flushed  at  the  open  coarseness  in  her  voice. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"Thank  you,  but  I'd  rather  not  meet  anyone,"  she 
said.  "Herr  Schultz  takes  me  home  every  evening. 
He  doesn't  like  me  to  meet  strangers.  I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  to  offend  him." 

This  time  the  laughter  was  general. 

"What  do  you  care  what  that  old  fossil  says?" 
began  Frau  Brower,  and  her  husband,  who  had  joined 
them  again,  frowned  darkly  as  he  looked  toward  the 
platform. 

"Look  here,"  he  growled,  "what's  this?  Am  I 
paying  you  to  be  a  fine  lady?  Do  you  think  you're 
an  opera  singer?" 

Marie's  lips  trembled.     She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Please,"  she  faltered,  "I— I  think  I'd  better  go 
back."  She  was  looking  into  Brower's  scowling  face. 
She  saw  his  eyes  shift,  and  suddenly,  a  great  change 
came  over  him.  His  anger  seemed  to  vanish  almost 
by  magic,  and  an  oily  smile  spread  over  his  features. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  41 

"Never  mind,  Fraulein,"  he  said,  and  she  thought 
she  saw  him  glance  warningly  at  his  wife,  "we  will 
excuse  you  if  you  want  to  go." 

Marie  turned  to  see  the  cause  for  this  sudden 
change,  and  found  herself  looking  straight  into  the 
burning  eyes  of  the  man  who  once  before  had  come 
to  her  assistance. 

He  bowed  slightly,  with  a  smile  that  was  so  encour 
aging  that  the  girl  knew  instinctively  she  owed 
Brewer's  change  of  front  to  his  interference.  Tremb 
ling,  she  started  back  to  the  platform,  the  Captain 
standing  aside  and  bowing  his  acknowledgment  of 
her  timid  smile  of  thanks. 

This  man  with  his  polished  manner,  his  fine  car 
riage,  his  trim  uniform  was  more  like  the  men  she 
had  met  at  her  father's  home,  more  her  own  class. 
His  thin,  aquiline  face  had  smiled  on  her  with  what, 
in  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  she  took  to  be  kindly, 
fraternal  interest. 

Frau  Brower,  meanwhile,  had  watched  this  little 
by-play.  Her  face  reddened  under  its  coat  of  rouge. 

"Brower,"  she  choked,  "are  you  going  to  be  brow 
beaten  in  your  own  cafe?" 

Her  husband  tried  to  stop  her,  a  curious  look  of 
fear  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  hurriedly  at 
the  Captain's  table,  but  she  went  on  angrily. 

"Aren't  you  master  in  your  own  house  ?  I  wouldn't 
be  ordered  around  by  any " 

The  man  put  a  heavy  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Halt's  Maul,  you  fool,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know 
what  you're  saying,  he's He  bent  and  whis 
pered  something  in  her  ear.  What  he  said  had  the 


42  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

effect  of  instantly  dissipating  her  wrath,  and  she, 
too,  turned  and  glanced  fearfully  in  the  direction 
of  the  tall  officer. 

Brower  swore  under  his  breath  and  turned  heavily 
away,  leaving  the  others  to  comfort  his  spouse. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  Marie's  visits  among  the 
tables.  Once,  Brower  called  her  to  explain  one  of 
her  songs  to  a  "particular  friend"  of  his.  Another 
time,  she  must  go  and  ask  some  officers  what  they 
wanted  her  to  sing  next.  Schultz,  with  a  heavy  heart 
had  to  let  her  go. 

The  Captain,  whose  friendly  smile  had  struck  an 
answering  note  in  her  heart,  came  sometimes  three 
or  four  nights  consecutively.  Then,  perhaps  a  week 
or  ten  days  would  elapse  during  which  Marie  looked 
in  vain  for  the  tall,  lean  figure.  She  forgot  her  vague 
fears  of  his  cruel  mouth  anl  brilliant  eyes.  Her  heart 
was  so  sore  and  lonely  in  this  unaccustomed  place 
that  it  was  a  disappointment  to  her  when  she  missed 
him.  She  had  a  curious  sense  of  protection  and 
security  whenever  the  bright  note  of  his  uniform 
came  through  the  green  swinging-door,  and  he  made 
his  way  to  his  usual  table. 

There  was  an  undefinable  air  of  reticence,  a  touch 
of  the  mystic  about  him,  which  aroused  a  feeling  of 
interested  curiosity  in  the  girl's  heart. 

As  she  waited  between  songs,  her  naturally  active 
mind  amused  itself  by  trying  to  read  the  different 
faces  she  saw  before  her.  This  man  was  the  only  one 
of  whom  she  could  form  no  conception.  All  the 
others  were  obviously  what  they  were,  he  alone  was 
different.  And  because  it  is  the  unknown  which 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  43 

attracts,  and  because  he  had  on  several  instances 
shielded  her  from  rudeness,  she  began  to  think  of  him 
as  a  friend. 

There  was  no  one  to  point  out  to  her  that  the 
brilliant  eyes  were  cold  and  calculating,  that  the  lines 
about  the  thin  mouth  and  between  his  brows,  were 
those  experience  writes.  There  was  no  one  to  tell  her 
that  this  face  which  seemed  to  smile  so  kindly  into 
hers,  was  that  of  a  man  who  knows  his  ability  to 
judge  and  compare  the  values  of  sophistication  and 
inexperience,  and  who  has  used  this  knowledge  for 
the  domination  and  destruction  of  those  weaker  than 
himself. 

One  evening  as  she  sat  watching  him,  he  glanced 
about  the  room  in  a  coldly  speculative  fashion,  as 
one  who  sees  a  vision  that  includes  those  about  him. 
If  she  were  priviliged  to  see  the  picture  in  his  mind 
she  would  have  seen  the  gay  uniforms  about  her 
changed  into  a  dull  gray,  the  jauntily  set  caps 
replaced  by  spiked  helmets.  A  cold  smile  played 
about  the  thin  lips,  and  his  hand  resting  on  the  table 
unconsciously  clinched  as  though  it  grasped  the  hilt 
of  a  sword.  But  she  saw  only  the  smile  and  not  its 
meaning. 

Gradually,  she  began  under  Brower's  careful 
manoeuvering,  to  go  about  among  the  tables.  At  first, 
her  visits  were  very  brief,  but  sometimes,  some  par 
ticular  friend  of  the  proprietor's  detained  her  longer. 
On  these  occasions  there  was  much  laughter,  jokes 
whose  point  she  did  not  always  see,  and  many  rather 
rough  compliments,  but  on  the  whole,  nothing  that 
offended  her.  Brower  had  seen  to  that.  He  knew 


44  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

that  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  old  pianist  followed 
Marie  about  the  room,  and  it  suited  his  purpose  to 
see  that  both  his  fears  and  hers  should  be  laid  to  rest. 

To  the  Captain's  table,  however,  she  was  never  in 
vited.  There  was  only  the  friendly  nod  in  passing, 
the  kindly  smile  that  said,  "I  know;  I  understand 
how  out  of  place  you  are  here,  how  different  you  are 
from  the  rest !" 

And  old  Schultz,  seeing  the  flutter  in  the  laces  of 
the  girl's  breast  when  the  Captain  came  in,  watching 
the  flush  on  her  cheek,  when  their  eyes  met,  noting 
too,  with  a  pang  in  his  heart,  the  evident  disappoint 
ment  when  he  failed  to  appear,  shook  his  head  sadly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARIE  stood  a  moment  at  the  door  of  her  little 
dressing-room,  before  running  the  gauntlet  between 
its  shelter  and  the  platform,  where,  through  the 
wreaths  of  smoke,  she  could  see  old  Schultz's  thick 
shoulders  hunched  over  the  piano  keys.  Familiarity 
had  not  begotten  any  feeling  of  comfort  or  tolerance 
for  the  conditions  of  this  cheap,  tawdry  place.  She 
hated  the  timbered  walls  with  the  trite  phrases  sten 
ciled  on  them  in  black  letters,  the  bare  tables  with 
rings,  left  by  many  steins,  indelibly  stamped  on  them, 
the  shrill-voiced  women,  the  men.  She  hated  it  all. 
But  one  must  live. 

Her  rent  at  the  Schultz's  must  be  paid.  They  had 
scarcely  enough  for  themselves.  Her  thoughts  re 
verted  to  the  one  pleasant  memory,  the  tall  officer 
who  had  intervened  between  her  and  the  insults  of 
Frau  Brower. 

She  had  been  made  painfully  conscious  of  the 
woman's  enmity,  which  was  shown  in  a  score  of  ways, 
and  left  her  wondering  what  the  next  annoyance 
would  be. 

In  a  far  corner,  she  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  man  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking.  He  was 
engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  the  proprietor. 
His  face  was  black,  his  jaw  angrily  set,  and  he  was 
emphatically  pounding  the  palm  of  one  hand  with 
the  fist  of  the  other.  Brower,  unlike  his  usual  trucu 
lent  self,  was  listening  in  a  meek,  half-frightened 

way. 

45 


46  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Who  was  this  man,  she  wondered?  What  was  he? 
Had  he  a  permanent  place  in  her  life,  or  would  he  too, 
disappear  into  the  darkness  where  so  much  that  she 
had  known  had  vanished? 

She  saw  him  turn  from  the  door,  and  make  his  way 
to  the  table  that  was  always  reserved  for  hira.  She 
peered  through  the  swinging  smoke  wreaths.  Her 
eyes  brightened  as  she  watched  him.  His  square, 
thin  shoulders  stooped  a  little  as  he  took  his  seat, 
and  in  a  moment  he  was  in  deep  conversation  with 
the  same  young  lieutenant,  who  was  always  with  him. 
His  presence  gave  her  a  certain  feeling  of  pleasure, 
though  what  it  was,  or  why  she  felt  it,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  her  to  define.  She  walked  swiftly 
between  the  tables  and  mounted  the  platform. 

After  his  courteous  intervention  in  her  behalf,  she 
had  reproached  herself  for  the  feeling  of  distrust  that 
she  had  when  she  first  saw  him.  The  graying  hair 
at  his  temples,  increased  her  confidence,  she  could 
see  it  quite  plainly  from  where  she  stood  at  the  side 
of  the  piano.  She  found  herself  hoping  that  he  would 
look  in  her  direction,  and  was  pleased  when  he  turned 
from  his  companion  and  nodded  cheerfully  to  her. 

The  pale-faced  violinist  whispered  to  her  as  she 
sorted  her  music. 

"The  Captain  bows,  Fraulein,  that  is  nice,  yes?" 

She  could  not  tell  why  she  resented  the  tone,  and 
gave  no  answer,  but  she  was  conscious  of  being  dis 
appointed  when  for  a  long  time  he  paid  no  more 
attention  to  her.  There  were  other  beckoning  fingers, 
however,  other  welcoming  smiles,  and  Brower  was 
always  near  to  see  that  she  was  "nice  to  his  friends," 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  47 

and  being  "nice  to  his  friends"  meant  sometimes  being 
obliged  to  sit  at  the  tables  and  smiling  at  people 
she  loathed.  But  no  matter  how  her  soul  revolted  at 
her  task,  she  was  always  comforted  when  she  could 
meet  across  the  room,  the  brilliant  eyes  that  held  a 
smile  for  her,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Never  mind,  I  am 
here !  And  I  am  your  friend !" 

While  he  was  there,  she  was  sure  of  her  songs  being 
appreciated,  for,  although  the  Captain  did  not  deign 
to  applaud,  Franz  did  and  then  curiously  enough 
seemed  to  forget  her. 

The  two  men  were  always  together.  Sometimes 
they  came  in  late,  sometimes,  they  would  be  at  their 
table  when  Marie  arrived  and  would  stay  just  long 
enough  to  hear  one  song.  She  noticed  the  deference 
the  proprietor  paid  to  them. 

In  some  intangible  way,  the  Captain  managed  to 
stamp  himself  upon  her  consciousness  as  her  cham 
pion,  unnoticeably  to  others,  but  plainly  visible  to 
the  girl,  whose  horizon  was  so  empty  of  anyone  to 
whom  she  could  turn  for  help  or  understanding.  His 
methods  were  those  of  ihe  man  who  understands 
women  well  enough  to  know  that  in  order  to  achieve 
his  ends,  he  must  be  as  nearly  as  possible  like  the 
personality  admired  by  the  particular  woman,  in 
whom  he  is,  for  the  moment,  interested.  But  to 
Marie,  sick  of  the  coarse  brutality  about  her,  revolted 
by  the  covert  insults  that  she  only  half  understood, 
he  seemed  the  personification  of  chivalry  and  thought- 
fulness. 

She  was  particularly  grateful  for  his  protection 
against  the  rough,  boisterous  men  upon  whom  it  was 


48  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

part  of  her  task  to  smile.  Various  little  incidents  in 
which  he  proved  his  wish  to  protect  and  befriend  her, 
were  treasured  in  her  memory. 

One  night,  the  fat  man,  whose  cascading  chin  had 
so  revolted  her  the  first  time  she  sang,  called  her  to 
his  table,  and  afraid  to  disobey,  lest  Brower  should 
be  angry,  Marie  accepted  his  invitation. 

"You're  a  nice  little  girl,"  he  wheezed,  putting  his 
flabby  hand  with  its  flashing  diamond,  over  hers. 
"We'll  have  a  bottle  of  real  wine  together,  not  beer, 
like  the  rest  of  these,"  indicating  with  his  thumb  the 
drinking  students.  "You  and  I  are  going  to  be 
friends,  and  we're  going  to  enjoy  ourselves."  He 
smelled  horribly  of  beer  and  tobacco  smoke,  and  Marie 
tried  to  draw  her  hand  away,  but  he  leaned  heavily 
forward  and  tilted  her  chin  up  to  him  with  a  thick' 
forefinger.  "You're  a  little  thin,"  he  appraised,  "but 
I  like  them  like  that !" 

Marie  drew  away,  frightened,  when  suddenly 
Brower  tapped  her  tormentor  on  the  shoulder. 

"The  Captain  wants  the  Fraulein  to  sing  another 
song  before  he  goes.  You  will  excuse  her,  yes  ?" 

The  fat  man's  face  turned  almost  purple  and  he 
muttered  an  oath  under  his  breath,  but  he  drew  back, 
and  Marie,  her  heart  rejoicing  at  the  authority  of  her 
champion,  hurried  to  the  platform,  smiling  gratefully 
as  she  passed  his  table. 

This  might  have  been  an  accident,  but  it  happened 
again  and  again.  Each  time  some  noisy  student  or 
boisterous  young  officer  progressed  too  far  in  his 
attentions  to  her,  Marie  was  sure  of  some  subtle  inter 
ference  from  the  Captain  that  would  put  a  stop  to 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  49 

the  insults  and  unkindness  which,  without  realizing 
why,  she  knew  meant  some  terrible  danger  to  her. 

Gradually  and  almost  imperceptibly,  his  strong 
mind  and  dominant  personality  took  hold  of  her  nat 
urally  clinging  nature.  He  seemed  so  much  older, 
that  to  her  inexperience,  it  was  as  though  her  father 
were  watching  over  her,  and  she  gave  him  the  grati 
tude  and  admiration  a  child  might  give. 

Frequently,  during  the  long  days,  as  she  bent  over 
her  sewing  with  Frau  Schultz,  his  dark  profile  rose 
before  her  eyes,  his  quick  smile  flashed  across  her 
vision,  and  at  night,  when  she  brushed  her  yellow 
hair  by  the  little  window,  trying  to  shake  out  in  the 
faint  breeze,  the  heavy  scent  of  tobacco,  which  clung 
to  it,  she  would  remember  gratefully  how  he  had 
averted  again  some  unpleasantness. 

But  no  matter  from  what  angle  she  viewed  his  atti 
tude  toward  herself,  she  could  find  nothing  that 
seemed  to  warrant  the  faintly  indefinite  sense  of  dan 
ger  of  which  she  was  vaguely  conscious,  and  which  she 
tried  to  reason  away. 

One  night,  a  greasy  waiter  came  to  the  door  of  her 
dressing-room  with  a  twisted  tissue  paper  parcel  in 
his  hand. 

"The  Captain  sends  these,  Fraulein,"  he  mumbled, 
and  shuffled  off,  leaving  the  parcel  on  a  chair.  Marie 
unfolded  the  wrappings  and  found  two  lovely  roses, 
dewy  and  fragrant.  She  adored  flowers.  It  was  long 
since  she  had  seen  any  excepting  through  the  glass  of 
some  florist's  window,  and  she  pressed  her  flushed 
cheek  against  their  cool  petals.  Her  father  had  sel 
dom  gone  for  his  feeble  walk  without  bringing  her 


50  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

one  or  two  blossoms  on  his  return,  and  the  memory 
brought  the  ready  tears  to  her  eyes. 

How  good  this  man  was,  she  thought,  as  she  pinned 
the  flowers  in  among  the  white  laces  of  her  blouse. 
In  every  woman's  heart  there  is  the  inherent  desire 
for  masculine  admiration.  Little  convent-bred  Marie 
was  innocent  of  any  thoughts  of  coquetry.  She  only 
felt  the  natural  pleasure  that  youth  does  when  it  is 
noticed  and  appreciated. 

Old  Schultz  shook  his  head  when  she  showed  him 
the  two  roses  nestling  against  her  breast,  but  there 
was  no  time  for  comment.  The  smile  Marie  sent 
toward  the  Captain's  table,  was  a  very  bright  one, 
and  the  young  Lieutenant  nudged  his  companion  as 
he  noticed  it,  but  he  was  answered  by  so  forbidding 
a  frown,  that  he  took  refuge  in  his  mug  of  beer. 

Marie  sang  well  that  night.  The  clear,  sweet  voice 
held  a  note  of  joyousness,  missing  before.  Deep  in 
her  heart,  was  the  hope  that  the  Captain  might  send 
the  greasy  waiter  with  a  message  asking  her  to  step 
down  to  his  table  for  a  minute  or  so,  but  no  message 
came,  and  to  her  disappointment,  just  after  her  first 
song,  the  Captain  and  his  young  friend  pushed  back 
their  chairs  and  left. 

Who  was  this  man,  she  wondered,  for  the  hun 
dredth  time.  Everybody  in  the  "Two  Eagles,"  she 
had  noticed,  paid  him  marked  deference.  Once  or 
twice  before,  she  had  seen  him  leave  abruptly  when 
some  orderly  had  come  in  quietly  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder.  What  was  his  place  in  this  world  of 
which  she  was  beginning  to  see  so  many  sides? 

On  the  way  home  that  night,  old  Schultz  for  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  51 

first  time,  was  cross.  He  only  grumbled  when  Marie 
tried  to  talk  about  the  roses  she  was  so  carefully 
guarding  from  the  cold,  under  her  coat.  He  growled 
something  about  no  good  coming  from  such  things, 
but  she  scarcely  heard  him.  Her  feet  tripped  along, 
two  steps  to  each  of  his,  her  heart  full  of  gratitude 
for  the  kindness  that  had  been  shown  her. 

When  she  was  in  her  own  little  room,  she  put  the 
blossoms  tenderly  in  one  of  the  painted  mugs  that 
adorned  her  bureau,  and  began  slipping  quickly  out 
of  her  white  frock.  As  it  fell  about  her  feet  in  a  soft, 
shapeless  heap,  Frau  Schultz  came  in. 

"Fraulein,"  she  said,  "Shatzi  tells  me  that  Captain 
Von  Pfaffen  gave  you  some  flowers  to-night." 

Marie  stepped  out  of  her  dress  and  hung  it  care 
fully  in  the  clothes  press. 

Von  Pfaffen,  so  that  was  his  name ! 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  "two  lovely  roses!  Oh,  Frau 
Schultz,  that  was  just  what  my  father  used  to  do. 
Sometimes  it  was  one  lily,  sometimes  a  spray  of 
hyacinths,  sometimes  a  rose.  It  made  me  think  of  my 
father!" 

The  blue  eyes  were  moist  and  Frau  Schultz  kissed 
the  girl  tenderly  as  she  bade  her  good-night. 

"Shatzi,"  she  told  her  husband  later,  as  arrayed 
in  carpet  slippers  and  a  tattered  dressing-gown  he 
sat  smoking  a  good-night  pipe,  "Shatzi,  there  is  no 
cause  to  worry,  the  girl  is  still  only  a  child,  she  is 
grateful  for  something  her  father  would  have  done 
for  her.  You  must  not  suspect  everybody !"  and  she 
vigorously  pounded  the  already  plump  pillows  of  the 
mountainous  connubial  couch  before  climbing  into  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MAEIE  began  to  sing  only  for  one  table,  for  the 
one  pair  of  ears  for  whose  appreciation  she  cared. 
Love  had  not  entered  her  thoughts,  only  a  deep  in 
terest.  This  man  was  so  unlike  the  others  who  fre 
quented  the  "Two  Eagles."  His  stern  face  that 
could  break  into  a  smile  for  her,  the  lines  about  his 
thin  mouth,  the  graying  hair,  his  straight  military 
shoulders,  all  meant  to  the  girl  the  protection  she 
might  have  had  from  her  father.  She  would  have 
laughed  had  she  known  the  thoughts  that  were  worry 
ing  the  good  people  with  whom  she  lived. 

The  fact,  however,  that  some  one  was  interested  in 
her,  brought  more  color  into  her  cheeks,  more  vivacity 
into  her  manner.  She  was  developing,  the  lines  of 
her  figure  were  rounder.  She  was  more  mature.  The 
promise  of  fair  young  womanhood  was  beginning  to 
be  fulfilled,  so  that  now  as  she  hurried  along  the  short 
aisle  between  her  dressing-room  and  the  platform, 
more  eyes  followed  her,  more  hands  were  stretched  out 
to  detain  her.  Brower  was  pleased  with  his 
investment. 

One  night  she  left  the  platform  earlier  than  usual. 
The  Captain  and  his  companion  had  already  gone, 
and  she  whispered  to  old  Schultz  that  she  would  wait 
for  him  in  her  dressing-room.  Once  in  the  shelter  of 
its  dirty  walls,  she  pinned  on  her  hat,  threw  her  cloak 
about  her  and  sat  down  till  the  old  man  should  be 

ready  to  come  for  her.     She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the 

52 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  53 

board  which  served  as  a  dressing-table  and  looked  at 
herself  in  the  square  of  looking-glass  that  hung  above 
it.  It  was  cracked  and  splotched  with  mildew,  and 
the  light  of  the  one  gas  jet  flickered  and  marked 
queer  shadows  under  her  eyes  and  chin.  But  even  so, 
she  smiled  at  the  pleasing  image  that  smiled  back 
at  her. 

The  opening  of  the  door  startled  her,  and  turn 
ing,  she  found  herself  facing  Brower.  The  proprie 
tor  of  the  "Two  Eagles"  had  never  entered  the  little 
room  before.  Her  heart  sank.  Was  he  coming  to  tell 
her  she  was  not  needed? 

"What "  she  began,  but  Brower  stopped  her. 

"Don't  get  frightened,  Kleine.  I  didn't  come  to 
tell  you  I  thought  I  could  get  along  without  you." 
His  voice  was  thick,  and  his  coarse  face  redder  than 
usual.  He  leered  at  her  with  his  small,  swinish  eyes. 
She  saw  that  he  had  been  drinking  heavily.  "You're 
looking  prettier  these  days,  and  I  think  I'll  stretch  a 
point  and  let  you  have  an  extra  krone  if  you  want  it. 
Now,  who  says  I'm  not  kind-hearted,  eh?  Come, 
little  one,  give  me  a  kiss !"  and  before  the  girl  quite 
realized  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  grabbed  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  planted  a  rough  kiss  on  her  cheek. 

Marie  screamed  and  pushed  him  from  her  with  all 
her  force. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  gasped.     "How  dare  you?" 

Brower  chuckled.  "You're  prettier  when  you're 
mad!  Gott!  I  think  I'll  have  another!"  but  as  he 
started  toward  her,  the  girl  struck  him  full  in  the 
face  with  her  little  clenched  fist  and  ran  from  the 
room. 


54  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

The  indignity  of  it,  the  horrible  feel  of  his  flabby 
lips  against  her  cheek,  made  her  shudder  as  at  the 
touch  of  some  loathsome  reptile.  She  ran  sobbing 
through  the  passage,  but  just  as  she  was  about  to 
open  the  door  and  go  out  into  the  street,  a  hand  was 
laid  on  her  arm. 

She  shrank  back,  shivering  into  the  shadow,  but  as 
she  turned,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the 
Captain. 

"Fraulein,"  he  said,  "what  is  wrong?" 

Marie  hid  her  face  against  his  coat  sleeve  as  a  child 
might  have  done. 

"He  kissed  me,"  she  sobbed,  "the  awful  creature!" 

"Who?"  his  low  voice  shook  with  rage. 

"Brower!  I  was  waiting  for  Schultz  to  take  me 
home,  he  came  into  the  room  and  kissed  me!  It  was 
horrible !" 

Von  Pfaffen  started  down  the  passage. 

"I'll  settle  with  him,"  he  raged,  but  Marie  caught 
at  his  hand. 

"Please,"  she  whispered  frightened,  "please!"  and 
he  turned  and  patted  her  shoulder. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'll  see  him  later.  Come,  let 
me  take  you  home,"  and  with  gentle  fingers,  he  fas 
tened  her  coat  collar  about  her  throat,  and  before 
Marie  realized  it,  he  had  swept  her  into  a  fiakre  and 
they  were  whirling  away. 

The  thought  of  this  man's  kindness  to  her  over 
whelmed  her  again,  and  she  huddled  into  her  corner 
crying  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

"Come,  Fraulein,"  urged  her  companion,  "you 
really  mustn't.  I'll  see  that  the  brute  is  punished. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  55 

Fou  mustn't  cry  so,"  and  he  put  a  protecting  arm 
about  her  shoulders. 

Marie  sobbed  against  the  rough  cloth  of  his  heavy 
military  coat.  All  the  sorrow  and  struggle,  all  the 
misery  of  the  past  months  seemed  to  pour  from  her 
heart,  but  presently,  mingled  with  the  rumble  of  the 
wheels,  she  seemed  to  hear  the  query,  "where  are  you 
going?" 

She  straightened  herself  suddenly  and  her  com 
panion  made  no  effort  to  detain  her. 

"You  haven't  even  asked  me  where  I  live,"  she  said, 
surprise  quieting  her  sobs.  "Where  are  you  taking 
me?" 

Von  Pfaffen  drew  her  against  his  shoulder  again. 

"I  knew  you  would  tell  me  when  you  were  calmer," 
he  said.  "In  the  meantime,  it  is  early ;  we're  here  at 
my  place.  Come  in  for  a  minute.  You  are  frightened 
and  nervous.  Come  in,  my  old  housekeeper  will  make 
you  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  by  the  time  old  Schultz 
reaches  home,  you'll  be  there  too." 

"Oh  no,"  began  Marie,  "Frau  Schultz  will  be  wor 
ried,  I  can't,"  but  the  brakes  were  already  jerking 
against  the  wheels  and  in  another  second  the  fiakre 
had  drawn  up  in  front  of  a  brown-stone  apartment 
house. 

"I  can't,  they'll  worry,"  and  Marie  drew  back  in 
the  shelter  of  the  cab  as  Von  Pfaffen  stepped  onto  the 
sidewalk  and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  her  alight. 

"Nonsense,"  fie  assured  her,  "I'll  telephone  the 
'Two  Eagles'  as  soon  as  we  get  in  and  have  them  tell 
Schultz.  Come,  Fraulein,  just  a  cup  of  coffee." 

His  arm  steadied  her  across  the  icy  pavement,  and 


56  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

the  warmth  of  the  apartment  hall  was  comforting, 
but  Marie  stepped  into  the  lift  with  a  beating  heart. 

Was  this  wrong,  she  aslced  herself?  Would  her 
father  have  approved?  But  the  wonder  of  it  all  soon 
dulled  the  still  small  voice  that  spoke  again  of  that 
vague  sense  of  danger,  and  she  entered  the  hallway 
as  Von  Pfaffen  stood  aside  before  the  door  he  had 
just  opened. 

The  girl  looked  about  her  curiously.  So  this  was 
where  he  lived.  It  was  a  comfortable  apartment,  a 
peculiar  mixture  of  severity  and  luxury.  The  great 
easy  chair  that  held  out  inviting  arms  before  a  bright 
fire  burning  in  the  great  Jcachelofen,  and  the  long 
bare  table  with  its  litter  of  official-looking  papers, 
contrasted  curiously. 

Von  Pfaffen  rang  the  bell  and  an  old  woman  came 
in.  Marie  instinctively  disliked  her  face,  with  its 
pendulous  nose  and  the  heavy  blue-veined  cheeks,  but 
she  seemed  kindly  and  the  girl  was  ashamed  of  her 
aversion. 

"Coffee,  Lena,"  ordered  the  Captain,  and  with  a 
peculiar  flat-footed  shuffle,  the  old  woman  turned  and 
left  the  room. 

"She  was  my  nurse  when  I  was  a  child,"  said  Von 
Pfaffen,  and  Marie  looked  after  tne  ungainly  form 
with  a  new  interest. 

"I — I'm  ashamed  to  be  giving  you  all  this  trouble," 
she  stammered,  as  he  helped  her  out  of  her  coat ;  "but 
I  couldn't  stay  there,  could  I?" 

"Indeed  you  couldn't,  child.  Now  you  must  forget 
all  about  it.  I'm  glad  it  was  I  who  chanced  to  find 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  57 

you  before  that  beast  could  do  you  further  harm. 
To-morrow  I  shall  crush  him  like  a  fly !" 

"You  and  the  Schultzes  are  all  the  friends  I  have." 
She  looked  up  at  him  gratefully.  "There  isn't  any 
one  else  in  all  the  world." 

Von  Pfaffen  took  the  little  hand  and  patted  it. 

"There,  there,"  he  smiled,  "three  friends  are  a 
great  many  to  have  in  this  world,  don't  you  think?" 
and  he  settled  her  comfortably  into  one  of  the  big 
arm-chairs  before  the  fire. 

After  a  little,  Lena  waddled  in,  preceded  by  an 
appetizing  aroma  of  coffee.  She  carried  a  tray  on 
which  she  had  set  out  a  shining  urn  and  a  dish  of 
cakes,  and  pushing  aside  the  scattered  papers  on  the 
littered  table,  she  made  room  for  her  burden. 

"Is  everything  well,  Lena?"  asked  her  master. 

The  old  woman  grunted  and  shuffled  out,  closing 
the  door  after  her. 

"She's  not  very  friendly,"  apologized  Von  Pfaffen, 
"but  she  takes  advantage  of  having  been  with  me 
nearly  all  my  life,  and  besides,  she  lends  an  air  of 
respectability  to  my  bachelor  establishment." 

Marie  smiled  because  he  did.  It  was  good  to  be 
here  in  this  handsomely  furnished  apartment,  warm 
and  cozy,  and  with  this  man,  whom  she  so  much  ad 
mired,  beside  her.  She  sipped  her  coffee  luxuriantly 
and  nibbled  one  of  the  little  cakes. 

"I'll  telephone  that  you're  safe  with  me,  Fraulein," 
he  said,  and  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Marie  looked  about  her.  How  wonderful  Fate  was, 
she  mused.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  horrible  Brower, 
she  would  not  have  been  here  now.  The  unwonted 


58  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

warmth  lulled  her.  The  love  of  comfort  and  luxury 
was  strong  in  her.  Her  father  had  catered  to  it.  It 
had  been  his  happiness  to  see  how  readily  she  had 
given  up  the  austerity  of  the  convent  and  revelled 
in  the  almost  sybaritic  ease  with  which  he  loved  to 
surround  her.  She  snuggled  down  into  the  embrace 
of  the  great  easy  chair  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

This  was  what  her  home  had  been  like  that  short 
year  with  her  father,  and  the  thought  of  that  and  the 
intervening  months  with  their  bitter  struggle,  sent 
the  slow  tears  down  her  cheeks  again.  She  had  not 
time  to  brush  them  away  when  her  host  entered. 

"It's  all  right,  Fraulein,"  he  said.  "Schultz  came 
to  the  phone  himself.  I  told  him  I'd  bring  you  home 
later*  What?  You're  not  crying  again?  Fraulein, 
I  call  that  unkind,  when  I'm  trying  to  do  all  I  can 
for  you." 

"I  know  you  are,"  there  was  a  catch  in  Marie's 
voice.  "I'm  not  going  to  cry  any  more." 

"That's  right,"  and  Von  Pf  affen  drew  his  chair  up 
beside  her. 

"Now,  let's  have  a  talk.  I've  wanted  to,  ever  since 
I  first  saw  you  at  the  'Two  Eagles.' ' 

"How  wonderful  that  you  should  even  have  noticed 
me!"  Marie  was  unconscious  of  any  coquetry.  It 
was  wonderful  to  hear  that  this  resplendent  being 
should  have  picked  her  out  for  notice. 

The  Captain  leaned  over  and  took  one  of  her 
hands  in  his. 

"What  a  pretty  little  hand,"  he  said.  "What  a 
pity  it  has  had  to  work  so  hard.  All  these  rough 
places,"  and  suddenly  he  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  59 

Marie  was  startled,  but  at  her  involuntary  move 
ment,  he  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  again  to  the 
fire. 

"Warm  enough  here?"  he  asked,  so  paternally, 
that  the  girl  was  ashamed  of  her  vague  fears.  But 
somewhere  in  the  distance  she  heard  a  clock  striking 
the  hour. 

"It  must  be  getting  late,  Herr  Captain,"  she  fal 
tered,  "I  think  I'd  better  go,"  and  with  a  half  sigh 
for  the  comfort  about  her,  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

The  man  rose,  too,  hastily,  and  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders* 

"Just  a  little  longer,  Fraulein,"  he  begged,  "I've 
thought  so  often  of  you  sitting  here  as  you  are  now." 

His  face  frightened  Marie.  The  warmth  of  his 
hands  burning  through  the  shoulders  of  her  thin  gown 
made  her  uneasy.  His  eyes  seemed  bloodshot  in  the 
firelight,  and  a  vein  in  his  forehead  suddenly  stood 
out  like  a  cord. 

"Herr  Captain,  let  me  go,"  whispered  the  girl. 
"I  must  go." 

"No !"  His  voice  shook,  "no,  little  one,  you're  here 
and  you're  mine,"  and  before  she  really  knew  what 
was  happening,  she  found  herself  crushed  against  his 
breast,  powerless  to  struggle,  a  great  dizziness  sweep 
ing  over  her.  She  seemed  to  lose  all  sense  of  every 
thing  excepting  that  from  somewhere  immeasurably 
above  her,  his  mouth  drew  nearer,  and  nearer,  till  it 
folded  over  her  own  in  a  stifling  kiss. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  time,  conscious 
ness  came  back  to  her,  power  to  struggle,  and  with 
the  strength  of  youth,  she  freed  herself  from  his  arms. 


60  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Let  me  go,"  she  panted,  "let  me  go,"  and  blindly 
she  flung  herself  against  the  door  that  stood  behind 
her.  Where  it  led,  she  did  not  know,  she  only  knew 
that  she  must  get  away,  away  from  this  man  as  she 
had  run  away  from  the  other. 

Slipping  into  the  room  beyond,  she  threw  herself 
against  the  door,  striving  with  desperate  force  to 
hold  it  against  the  man  on  the  other  side.  She  had 
only  time  to  realize  that  she  had  flung  herself  into 
his  bedroom  for  shelter,  when  the  door  yielded,  and 
she  cowered  into  a  corner. 

Von  Pfaffen  came  toward  her,  his  voice  thick  and 
unsteady.  The  vein  in  his  forehead  beating,  his  eyes, 
even  away  from  the  firelight,  were  bloodshot. 

"Little  one,"  he  whispered,  "you're  not  going  to 
shut  me  out — to-night!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  huntsman  had  successfully  stalked  the  doe. 
With  the  ingenuity  and  skill  of  long  experience  he 
had  brought  her  to  bay.  The  trophy  won,  he  had 
gone,  leaving  his  victim  suffering  and  alone,  with  a 
wound  that  time  might  heal,  but  a  scar  that  could 
never  be  effaced. 

When  Marie  roused  herself  from  the  stupor  in 
which  she  had  lain,  the  room  was  flooded  with  sun 
light.  She  sat  up  slowly.  Her  head  throbbed  with 
a  splitting  pain,  her  eyeballs  burned.  She  was  sick 
with  revolt  and  terror.  This  man,  whom  she  had 
trusted,  whom  she  had  thought  was  her  friend,  was 
worse  than  those  from  whom  he  had  seemed  to  pro 
tect  her.  One  more  veil  was  torn  brutally  away  from 
her  eyes,  and  the  world  stared  back  at  her,  gaunt, 
ugly,  grim,  and  altogether  pitiless.  Phrases  heard 
at  the  convent,  kept  repeating  themselves  over  and 
over  in  her  brain.  What  would  her  father  have  said 
could  he  have  known?  How  could  she  explain  her 
absence  to  the  Schultzes?  How  could  she  face  them 
again?  Thctt  such  a  thing  as  this  could  have  hap 
pened  to  her! 

"I'll  kill  myself !"  she  sobbed.    "I  want  to  die !" 

After  awhile,  old  Lena  shuffled  in  with  breakfast 
on  a  tray,  her  ugly,  wooden  face,  as  expressionless 
as  a  carven  image,  her  wicked  old  eyes  shifting  about 
the  room.  The  girl  buried  her  head  deeper  in  the 

pillows. 

61 


62  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Let  me  alone!"  she  cried.  "Let  me  alone!  I 
want  to  die !" 

The  old  woman  grunted. 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  she  said  unsympathetically. 
"What  did  you  come  here  for?"  and  setting  the  tray 
down,  she  left  her  to  weep  out  her  horror  and  remorse 
alone. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  convulsed  with  sobs.  Then 
the  natural  reaction  of  youth  and  perfect  health  re 
asserted  itself.  She  gradually  grew  quiet.  The 
courage  that  had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  face  so 
many  trying  experiences  in  the  past  year,  came  to 
her  rescue. 

The  thing  had  happened.  There  was  no  going 
back.  She  must  face  it  as  best  she  could. 

Later,  her  hat  pinned  on  securely,  her  cloak 
wrapped  about  her,  she  opened  the  door  and  went  into 
the  library. 

Von  Pfaffen  was  sitting  in  the  great  easy  chair  by 
the  fire,  evidently  waiting  for  her.  He  rose  as  she 
entered. 

"Ah,  little  one "  he  began,  but  stopped  as  he 

saw  that  she  wag  dressed  for  the  street. 

Marie  looked  at  him  dully. 

"I'm  going!" 

He  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  smiled 
into  her  eyes. 

"Where?"  The  slight  note  of  sarcasm  did  not 
escape  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper, 
her  lips  trembled  pitifully. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  63 

He  bent  over  her  with  a  smile.  His  long  arm  drew 
her  close  to  him. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said  softly,  "don't  be  frightened. 
I  love  you.  You  are  all  mine  now." 

The  girl  tried  to  draw  away  from  him,  crying 
aloud  her  bitterness,  but  with  the  strength  that  she 
could  not  battle  against,  Von  Pfaffen  held  her  firmly 
against  his  shoulder. 

"Little  one,"  he  whispered,  "there  is  nothing  to  cry 
about.  I  love  you!  As  soon  as  I  can  arrange  my 
affairs,  we'll  be  married.  Everything  will  be  well." 

But  Marie  sobbed  with  long  dry  sobs  that  tore  at 
her  throat.  How  could  she  face  the  Schultzes?  How 
could  she  go  back  to  the  "Two  Eagles"  even  if  they 
would  take  her  in  ?  Where  was  she  to  go  ?  What  was 
to  become  of  her? 

Von  Pfaffen  soothed  and  patted  her. 

"There  is  nothing  to  worry  about,  Liebchen,"  he 
whispered.  "Don't  you  trust  me?"  His  brilliant  eyes 
softened  into  almost  sincerity.  "The  Schultzes  will 
probably  not  take  you  in,  besides,  your  place  is  here 
with  me." 

Marie's  breath  caught  in  her  throat  and  she  shrank 
away  from  him. 

"No,"  she  stammered,  "no — please!  You  must 
let  me  go !" 

"But  where?"  and  in  her  heart  the  girl  echoed  his 
words. 

"Where!" 

Quick  to  see  his  advantage,  he  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders. 

"Now  listen,  I  love  you !    I  want  you !    As  soon  as 


64  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

my  affairs  are  adjusted,  as  soon  as  the  work  I'm 
engaged  in  is  finished,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  pile  of 
papers  on  the  long  table,  "you  and  I  will  be  married !" 

Her  trembling  hands  grasped  his  coat  lapels.  She 
shook  at  them  desperately. 

"Marry  me  now,"  she  begged,  "marry  me  now! 
What  would  the  nuns  say — my  father — Frau 
Schultz?  Marry  me  now!  You  must!" 

He  drew  her  cheek  against  his  own. 

"Hush,  little  one,"  he  whispered,  "don't  worry. 
There  are  reasons  why  I  can't  arrange  things  now. 
Everything  will  be  all  right.  Can't  you  trust  me?" 
His  eyes  smiled  into  hers,  the  lines  about  his  mouth 
were  softened,  gentle.  There  was  no  suggestion  of 
the  terrible  creature  against  whom  she  had  tried  to 
bar  her  door. 

The  power  of  his  dominant  personality  over-awed 
her.  She  wanted  so  to  trust  him. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  faltered.  "Where  am 
I  to  go?" 

"You  are  not  going  anywhere.  You  are  going  to 
stay  here  with  me,  sheltered,  taken  care  of,  protected, 
as  I  shall  protect  you,  until  we  can  be  married.  You 
don't  want  to  leave  me,  do  you  ?"  and  in  spite  of  her 
grief,  the  warning  voice  of  her  conscience,  Marie 
thought  of  the  "Two  Eagles,"  of  the  swinging 
wreaths  of  tobacco  smoke,  the  heavy,  fetid  air,  the 
leers  of  the  half-drunken  students,  which  she  seemed 
suddenly  to  understand.  She  felt  again  the  flabby, 
sticky  kiss  of  Brower  against  her  cheek,  and  shud 
dered  as  she  thought  what  that,  too,  might  have 
meant.  To  go  back  to  the  "Two  Eagles"  was  impos- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  65 

sible,  even  if  Brower  would  have  taken  her,  after  the 
blow  she  had  given  him,  and  the  Schultzes — the 
Schultzes  would  never  let  her  in  again.  She  looked 
about  her  half  stupidly.  The  fire  crackled  comfort 
ably  in  the  stove.  The  room,  in  spite  of  its  incon 
gruity,  was  such  a  room  as  her  father  had  taught 
her  to  love.  This  man  beside  her  was,  after  all,  one 
of  her  own  class. 

Through  her  thoughts,  she  could  hear  his  voice 
saying  again,  softly,  kindly,  with  that  subtle  charm 
that  held  such  fascination  for  her:  "You  will  stay, 
little  one?  You  don't  want  to  leave  me,  when  I  love 
you  so !  We'll  be  married  as  soon  as  I  can  arrange  it. 
Trust  me.  Little  hands  like  these  were  never  meant 
to  work.  Little  feet  like  these  should  be  cased  in 
satin.  Let  me  give  you  everything,  anything! 
Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  you  don't  want  to  leave  me' 
You  can't!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  days  that  followed  were  like  a  dream  to  Marie. 
At  first  there  were  tears  and  misgivings.  Wonder 
ment  at  what  the  Schultzes  were  thinking  of  her  stay 
ing  away  so  long,  racked  her  with  remorse  and  suffer 
ing,  but  Von  Pfaffen  quieted  her  fears,  assured  her 
over  and  over  of  marriage  as  soon  as  his  affairs  could 
be  arranged,  as  soon  as  the  work  in  which  he  was  en 
gaged,  should  be  finished. 

There  was  nowhere  to  go,  nothing  to  do.  She  had 
no  money,  and  so  miserably,  she  stayed  on,  hoping  as 
each  day  came,  that  it  would  bring  the  marriage  he 
was  promising. 

Sometimes  she  would  look  at  the  pile  of  papers  on 
the  littered  table  and  plead  with  him  not  to  wait  till 
they  were  finished.  Those  piles  of  papers  seemed 
interminable.  Her  training,  her  mentality,  all  her 
instincts  told  her,  that  after  what  had  happened,  she 
was  eternally  damned  unless  he  married  her,  and  it 
was  that  hope  which  kept  her  spirit  alive.  She  lived 
from  day  to  day  waiting  for  this  salvation.  When 
he  made  his  work,  as  he  always  did,  his  excuse,  she 
would  look  up  into  his  eyes  and  resolve  to  wait. 

He  had  set  her  mind  at  rest  as  to  what  the  Schultzes 
would  say,  by  telling  her  that  they  knew  where  she 
was,  that  he  had  told  them  he  had  engaged  her  as 
his  secretary. 

"Isn't  that  a  better  position  for  you,  than  teaching 
66 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  67 

stupid  children  or  singing  in  a  smoky  cafe?"  he 
asked. 

He  had  sent  old  Lena  away  to  visit  her  people, 
and  given  over  his  keys  and  the  care  of  his  rooms  to 
Marie.  In  spite  of  the  thought  of  whether  the  con 
vent  and  her  father  would  have  approved  of  the  state 
of  affairs,  while  waiting  for  the  marriage,  her  fears 
were  gradually  lulled  and  little  by  little,  she  came  to 
take  things  almost  as  a  matter  of  course. 

She  had  wanted  to  go  back  to  her  room  at  the 
Schultzes  for  her  few  belongings.  The  only  clothes 
she  had  were  her  little  white  dress  and  the  coat  which 
she  had  worn  the  night  they  came  here  from  the  "Two 
Eagles."  But  Von  Pfaffen  had  laughed. 

"Never  mind  those  few  rags,  Liebchen"  he  said, 
"come  with  me  and  we'll  get  some  more." 

Marie  had  demurred  at  this,  but  he  insisted. 

"As  my  future  wife,  you  owe  it  to  me  to  look  as 
pretty  as  you  can!  When  I  introduce  you  to  my 
friends,  you  want  me  to  be  proud  of  you,  don't  you  ?" 

Reluctantly  Marie  had  come  to  agree  that  perhaps 
after  all,  this  was  right,  that  she  could  accept  these 
things  almost  as  a  marriage  gift.  Surely  it  meant 
that  she  could  trust  him.  She  resolved,  however,  to 
select  only  what  was  absolutely  necessary. 

But  her  eyes  sparkled  over  the  lovely  clothes  which 
were  the  result  of  this  decision,  for  although  she  had 
chosen  only  plain  things,  Von  Pfaffen  had  insisted 
on  adding  one  or  two  dainty  dresses  from  which  she 
had  resolutely  turned  away. 

Marie  was  in  that  state  of  her  development,  where 
absolute  dependence  upon  other  people  was  a  neces- 


68  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

sity.  She  had  clung  to  the  Schultzes  as  she  now  clung 
to  the  belief  and  hope  that  this  man  would,  in  the  end, 
exonerate  her  in  the  eyes  of  her  conscience. 

The  chasm  had  been  crossed,  the  bridge  had  been 
burned.  She  knew  desperately  that  her  only  salva 
tion  was  to  cling  to  the  position  in  which  she  found 
herself,  she  must  go  on  in  the  hope  that  soon  the 
wrong  that  had  been  done  her  might  be  righted. 

Sometimes  when  he  was  away  on  this  mysterious 
business  of  his,  she  used  to  sit  and  brood  for  hours, 
either  staring  into  the  fire  or  out  of  the  window, 
never  really  seeing  anything.  She  longed  so  for  some 
one  to  confide  in,  some  one  to  advise  her.  She  thought 
of  the  good  priest  at  the  convent,  who  used  to  smile 
and  pat  her  head  after  confession.  If  she  could  only 
have  gone  to  him  and  asked  his  advice.  But  Von 
Pfaffen  always  laughed  when  she  spoke  of  going  to 
church,  and  as  for  confession,  he  had  absolutely  for 
bidden  her  that.  After  each  one  of  these  days  of 
brooding,  Marie  would  go  to  him  when  he  returned 
home  and  ask  again  when  they  were  to  be  married. 

Sometimes  he  used  to  laugh  as  he  lifted  her  chin 
with  a  long  forefinger. 

"What  a  little  doubter!"  he  would  say.  "Come, 
come,  have  patience,  all  in  good  time!"  and  then  he 
would  so  adroitly  change  the  conversation  that  she 
found  herself  thinking  of  other  things  in  spite  of 
herself.  Sometimes  he  would  be  pleased  to  take  her 
seriously. 

"Marie,"  he  would  say,  looking  deep  into  her  eyes 
with  his  magnetically  brilliant  ones,  "you  are  the 
same  to  me  as  my  wife  now;  do  you  think  a  few  words 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  69 

spoken  by  a  priest  will  make  me  feel  any  differently  ? 
I'm  afraid  you  don't  love  me,  or  you  wouldn't  doubt 
me!" 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  but  resignation.  If  he 
said  things  were  all  right,  they  must  be.  If  he  said 
things  would  adjust  themselves,  they  surely  would. 
She  must  be  content  to  wait. 

Gradually,  she  came  to  learn  that  this  man  who 
had  so  cavalierly  linked  his  life  with  hers,  and  who 
posed  before  the  world  as  an  indolent  gentleman  of 
leisure  with  no  other  vocation  than  his  military 
duties,  which,  however,  never  seemed  to  take  him  to 
the  barracks,  had  a  secret  engrossing  occupation. 
Private  matters,  from  the  knowledge  of  which  she 
was  sternly  shut  out,  occupied  his  constant  attention 
and  often  took  him  away  for  long  periods.  At  such 
times  he  gave  her  no  knowledge  of  his  destination  or 
when  he  would  return. 

At  first  she  felt  strange,  alone  in  the  quiet  apart 
ment,  but  she  grew  accustomed  to  these  journeys  of 
his  and  to  the  sudden  sound  of  his  key  in  the  door, 
for  he  would  come  back  as  quietly  and  with  as  little 
intimation  as  he  had  gone. 

There  were  callers  at  all  sorts  of  queer  hours,  men 
in  uniform  and  men  muffled  in  great  coats  with  hats 
pulled  down  over  their  eyes,  and  always  when  they 
came,  he  would  manage  so  that  she  would  either  go  to 
her  room  or  would  remember  some  little  shopping  she 
had  to  do. 

Once  she  had  been  awakened  in  the  night  by  voices. 
She  opened  her  door  softly  and  looked  out.  Von 
Pfaffen  and  five  men  were  seated  about  the  dining- 


70  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

table.  They  were  drinking,  their  faces  were  flushed, 
their  manner  excited.  She  heard  one  of  them  ask, 

"Are  you  sure  it  will  come?" 

To  which  the  eldest  man  in  the  party,  a  burly, 
square-jawed  officer  of  high  rank,  replied  with  an 
oath : 

"It  must  come !" 

She  saw  Von  Pfaffen  rise  to  his  feet  and  lift  his 
wine  glass. 

"Here's  to  the  Day !"  he  said. 

The  others  rose  also,  and  rang  their  glasses 
together. 

"To  the  Day!" 

She  closed  her  door  quietly.  What  did  it  mean? 
What  was  the  day  for  which  they  were  waiting. 

In  the  evenings  that  followed  she  heard  this  toast 
again  and  again,  and  each  time  it  stirred  in  her  a 
vague  dread  of  some  impending  evil. 

Once  she  had  had  a  glimpse  of  one  of  these  visitors 
who  evidently  desired  that  his  identity  should  not  be 
disclosed.  In  the  dim  light,  the  face  seemed  strangely 
familiar. 

The  Captain's  manner  as  he  led  his  guest  to  the 
door  was  full  of  a  servility  she  had  never  known  him 
to  show  to  any  one,  but  while  she  was  still  wondering, 
the  visitor  caught  sight  of  her  and  drew  his  coat 
collar  hastily  up  over  his  face.  Von  Pfaffen  turned 
angrily  and  slammed  the  door.  She  spent  a  long 
time  puzzling  as  to  where  she  had  seen  these  features 
before.  It  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  been  depicted 
in  many  photographs,  but  who  he  was  she  could  not 
remember. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  71 

When  she  mentioned  this  incident  later,  Von  Pfaffen 
told  her  unceremoniously  to  hold  her  tongue,  though 
afterward,  he  made  up  to  her  with  extra  caresses  for 
his  rudeness. 

Once  she  had  overheard  a  word,  a  sudden  phrase, 
that,  though  she  was  unable  to  quite  understand  its 
meaning,  still  filled  her  with  breathless  dread,  a  vague 
apprehension  of  this  engrossing  work  of  his. 

One  evening  when  they  were  alone,  Marie  spread 
a  dainty  little  supper  on  the  long  table,  pushing  aside 
the  scattered  papers  with  a  careless  hand  to  make 
room  for  the  tempting  dishes.  There  had  been  a 
bottle  of  Tokay  and  he  was  flushed  with  the  glow  of 
its  contents,  but  there  was  a  suppressed  exultation 
in  his  manner  which  she  could  not  altogether  attribute 
to  the  wine  he  had  drunk.  She  had  never  seen  him 
quite  like  this,  he  was  always  so  much  master  of  him 
self.  She  felt  instinctively  the  force  of  some  great 
underlying  excitement  that  was  gripping  him. 

"Little  one,"  he  bragged  thickly,  "some  day  you 
and  I  will  have  everything  we  can  wish  for.  Some 
day  soon,  we  will  stand  by  and  watch  all  the  world 
rock — and  when  it  settles1  down  again,  there  will  be 
only  one  country — the  Fatherland !" 

She  was  startled  at  the  expression  that  came  over 
his  face.  It  glowed  with  ruthless  greed,  the  will  to 
dominate,  to  succeed,  no  matter  what  the  cost. 

"How  strangely  you  talk!"  she  said.  "What  a 
wild  dream !" 

"Dream!  Herrgott!  It's  no  dream!  It's  the 
truth !"  and  he  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  so 
that  the  empty  glasses  danced.  Then  he  suddenly 


72  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

turned  quiet,  sullen,  and  after  vainly  trying  to  bring 
him  back  to  his  gay  mood  again,  Marie  gathered  the 
remains  of  the  little  feast  and  left  the  room. 

Sometimes  they  conversed  in  French  when  they  were 
together.  The  Captain  spoke  it  flawlessly,  without  a 
trace  of  the  German  guttural,  and  often  he  would 
amuse  the  girl  by  imitating  Parisian  street  gamins 
or  French  market  women.  He  was  an  excellent  mimic 
and  Marie  was  secretly  amazed  at  his  ability  to 
change  his  personality  at  will.  It  seemed  so  incon 
gruous  with  the  severe  dignity  of  his  character  as 
she  knew  it. 

He  always  spoke  to  her  as  though  to  a  child  he 
was  trying  to  amuse,  but  as  she  listened,  Marie  was 
conscious  of  an  indefinable  apprehension,  a  vague  fear 
of  this  man  whom  she  could  so  little  understand. 

During  the  long,  monotonous  days  when  she  was 
alone,  she  turned  for  solace  and  company  to  the  books 
which  lined  his  room.  A  new  world  was  opened  up 
for  her  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  She  spent 
long  hours  pouring  over  Schopenhauer,  Kant, 
Nietzsche,  and  even  some  of  the  Russian  writers,  Tol 
stoi,  Gorky,  Dostoieffsky.  She  began  to  see  the 
answers  to  some  of  her  own  problems  through  the 
bitter  eyes  of  these  great  Sad  Ones. 

One  dull,  cold  day,  when  Von  Pfaffen  had  been 
away  longer  than  usual,  she  curled  herself  up  in  the 
great  chair  by  the  fire  with  a  volume  of  Dostoieff- 
sky's  "Letters  from  the  Underworld."  It  was  one 
of  those  wild  March  days,  whose  fierceness  proclaims 
it  as  the  last  gasp  of  winter,  and  the  glow  of  the 
coals  was  very  cheering. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  73 

She  turned  to  the  story,  "Apropos  of  Falling 
Sleet."  The  title  seemed  appropriate  for  the  day, 
and  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  comfort  of  the  fire. 

But  as  she  read  through  the  bitter,  stinging  tirade 
which  is  poured  out  on  the  head  of  a  poor  little  Petro- 
grad  prostitute,  a  tirade  etched  with  the  biting  acid 
of  the  great  Russian's  most  caustic  pen,  her  face 
whitened,  her  lips  trembled,  the  horror  of  it  shook 
her  with  a  dreadful  fear.  This  first  knowledge,  that 
because  men  were  brutal  animals  there  must  be  women 
whose  lot  it  was  to  suffer  so,  widened  her  eyes  with 
a  terror  like  a  child  must  feel  in  a  nightmare.  She 
threw  the  book  away  from  her  and  tried  to  forget  it 
by  looking  over  the  scattered  papers  on  the  table. 
They  proved  uninteresting  and  unintelligible  to  her, 
and  so  with  characteristic  neatness,  she  arranged 
them  in  methodical  piles.  Von  Pfaffen,  entering  in 
his  usual  unexpected  manner,  observed  her  occupa 
tion  and  was  furiously  angry  with  her,  so  angry  that 
she  was  frightened.  The  pages  of  the  book  she  had 
read,  still  clear  in  her  mind,  she  burst  into  hysterical 
weeping. 

His  anger,  however,  was  short-lived. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  "it's  of  no  matter,  but  re 
member  you  are  never  to  go  near  my  papers  again" ; 
and  Marie,  grateful  that  the  storm  had  blown  over, 
dried  her  eyes,  promising  faithfully. 

She  had  thought  many  times  of  going  to  see  the 
Schultzes,  but  always  there  was  something  to  prevent. 
She  did  send  them  a  letter  enclosing  a  bank  note,  and 
telling  them  that  she  was  well  and  that  soon  she  and 
the  Captain  were  to  be  married,  but  the  letter  had 


74  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

come  back  unopened  and  she  had  concluded  that  for 
some  reason  they  had  given  up  the  little  flat  and 
gone  elsewhere. 

Once  she  had  timidly  mentioned  the  Russian  book 
to  Von  Pfaffen,  but  he  had  taken  it  from  her  clinging 
fingers  and  said  that  such  books  were  not  for  pretty 
heads  like  hers  to  worry  over. 

Occasionally  he  took  her  to  the  theatre  or  the 
opera.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  a  world  she  had  never 
known,  filled  with  the  color  and  life  of  Vienna,  the 
sight  of  beautiful  women  in  wonderful  clothes,  of 
sparkle,  light.  It  was  as  though  she  were  living  in 
a  different  sphere.  But  his  business  engrossed  him 
more  and  more  as  the  days  went  by,  and  to  Marie, 
his  waning  interest  merely  meant  that  these  mys 
terious  affairs  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  were  tak 
ing  up  his  entire  attention. 

One  day  Franz,  the  young  Lieutenant,  who  had 
been  her  first  sponsor  at  the  "Two  Eagles,"  walked 
in  and  found  her  busy  about  the  place,  a  dainty  little 
apron  tied  over  her  pretty  morning  frock,  her  yellow 
hair  braided  neatly  about  her  small  head.  This  was 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  since  those  nights  at 
the  "Two  Eagles."  He  stood  and  looked  at  her  with 
mouth  and  eyes  open. 

"Ach,"  he  said,  "so?" 

Marie's  answer  had  been  filled  with  dignity.  There 
was  something  about  this  heavy-faced  boy  she  always 
resented. 

"I  am  the  Captain's  secretary,"  she  said  hastily, 
and  then  added  as  she  saw  the  flat  face  broaden  in 
an  understanding  grin,  "the  Captain  and  I  are  to 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  75 

be  married  as  soon  as  all  this  work  is  finished,"  and 
she  waved  a  small  hand  toward  the  table. 

The  grin  on  the  Lieutenant's  face  grew  into  a 
laugh. 

"Married?"  he  chuckled.  "Married!  That's  good! 
I  congratulate  you,  Fraulein,"  and  gathering  the 
papers  he  had  come  for,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left. 

Marie  could  hear  his  noisy  chuckle  above  the  sound 
of  his  clicking  boot  heels,  as  he  hurried  down  the 
passage. 

She  was  furiously  angry  at  something  she  had  seen 
in  his  eyes.  His  coarse  laugh  hurt  her.  All  her  old 
doubts,  which  Von  Pfaffen's  suave  manner  had  man 
aged  to  lull,  came  surging  back.  This  stupid  young 
Lieutenant,  he,  too,  suspected  what  old  Lena  had 
hinted  at.  She  threw  herself  on  the  couch  and  wept 
in  an  agony  of  bitterness  and  shame. 

When  Von  Pfaffen  came  in,  she  ran  to  him  with 
the  tears  still  wet  on  her  flushed  cheeks  and  clung  to 
him  desperately. 

"You  are  going  to  marry  me,  aren't  you?"  she 
sobbed. 

"Of  course,  we'll  be  married,"  he  assured  her,  "of 
course,  but  we  must  wait.  When  this  pressing  work 
is  finished,  everything  will  be  as  you  wish !" 


CHAPTER  X 

AND  so  the  days  flew  by  bringing  little  change, 
excepting  that  Marie  was  left  more  and  more  to  her 
self  as  Von  Pfaffen's  work  seemed  to  accumulate. 

She  seldom  touched  the  piano  when  he  was  near, 
for  although  she  played  well,  she  lacked  the  round 
ness  of  touch,  the  depth  of  tone  which  pleased  his 
fastidious  ear.  But  during  the  long  hours  when  he 
was  away,  her  music  was  a  great  solace  to  her. 

Her  walks  never  carried  her  far  from  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  brought  her  little  amusement.  It  was  a 
peculiarly  quiet,  uneventful  location,  given  over,  for 
the  most  part,  to  nurses  and  their  charges. 

Von  Pfaffen  was  away  from  the  apartment  now 
for  longer  periods  of  time.  These  journeys  came  at 
more  and  more  frequent  intervals.  His  manner 
toward  her  began  to  change,  he  grew  brusque  and 
indifferent,  the  slightest  thing  irritated  him.  He 
would  sit  for  long  periods  at  the  littered  table,  going 
over  his  papers  in  silence.  Fearful  of  annoying  him, 
she  would  remain  quiet,  crocheting  endless  yards  of 
lace  or  staring  into  the  coals,  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  work,  he  would  gather  it  together,  put  on  his  hat 
and  coat  and  leave  her  without  a  word. 

Once  during  his  absence,  she  had  ventured  another 
glimpse  at  those  papers  which  so  absorbed  him,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  mostly  tracings  of  curious  lines, 
columns  of  cryptic  numbers  and  telegrams  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  cypher,  and  she  soon  lost  all  interest 

as  to  what  might  be  their  import. 

76 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  77 

Toward  spring,  old  Lena  walked  in  one  morning, 
her  pendulous  nose  red  from  the  brisk  winds,  her 
ample  form  swathed  in  the  enveloping  folds  of  an 
ancient  shawl. 

"So  you're  still  here,  Fraulein?"  was  her  ungra 
cious  greeting,  and  Marie,  who  had  welcomed  her 
with  a  smile,  was  chilled. 

"Of  course,  I'm  still  here,  Lena,"  she  answered,  as 
the  old  woman  laid  aside  her  wraps.  "I'm  to  stay 
here.  The  Herr  Captain  and  I  are  to  be  married 
soon." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  curiously  from  be 
tween  her  reddish  eyelids. 

"So,"  she  grunted,  "that's  what  he  told  you.  Well, 
it's  not  for  me  to  say,"  and  she  ran  an  inquisitive 
forefinger  along  the  ledge  of  the  mantle  in  search 
of  dust. 

Marie  was  angry,  but  it  had  been  so  long  since  she 
had  spoken  with  anyone  besides  the  Captain,  that 
she  welcomed  the  return  of  even  this  unpleasant 
creature. 

"Lena,"  she  began,  "you  know  the  Captain  so  well, 
you  must  know  that  he  always  does  what  he  says  he 
will  do.  Won't  you  be  a  little  kind  to  me?  I'm  a 
very  lonely  girl." 

The  old  woman  smoothed  her  scanty  hair,  which 
she  wore  according  to  an  ancient  fashion,  banded 
down  on  either  side  of  her  face  and  rolled  under  her 
ears  into  a  hard  little  knot  behind. 

"Well,  Fraulein,"  she  said  grudgingly,  "you  may 
be  different  from  the  'others,'  I  don't  know,"  and 
that  was  all  the  conversation  Marie  could  get  from 


78  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

her  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  although  she  followed  tlie 
old  woman  about  the  little  apartment  as  she  grum- 
blingly  set  things  back  in  the  order  in  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  having  them,  out  of  which  Marie  had 
changed  them. 

The  girl  tried  to  talk  to  Von  Pfaffen  that  night, 
but  it  was  very  late  when  he  came  in  and  his  mood 
was  such  as  to  discourage  any  effort  to  continue  the 
conversation,  and  so  she  lay  awake  almost  till  dawn, 
worrying.  She  had  been  afraid  to  face  this  question 
boldly,  even  to  herself.  After  his  first  promises,  she 
believed  him  because  she  wanted  to  believe  him,  be 
cause  her  peace  of  mind  depended  upon  it.  In  the 
books  she  had  read  before  she  came  here,  wedding 
bells  always  ended  the  last  chapter,  journeys  always 
ended  in  lovers'  meeting.  But  the  Captain's  books 
were  different.  There  was  that  horrible  chapter  of 
Dostoieffsky,  which  she  had  since  read  again,  and 
every  now  and  then  an  unpleasant  picture  had  crossed 
her  mind,  of  one  of  the  convent  girls  who  had  come 
back  weeping  to  the  Mother  Superior,  and  when  she 
allowed  herself  the  memory,  she  could  even  now  hear 
the  stern  voice  saying:  "My  child,  you  have  sinned 
deeply!" 

But  Von  Pfaffen's  kindness,  his  repeated  assur 
ances,  at  first  had  shut  out  all  fear  of  this.  Now, 
however,  things  looked  different,  his  manner  had 
changed.  Old  Lena's  allusion  to  those  "others,"  dis 
quieted  her. 

She  thought  of  the  letter  that  had  come  back  un 
opened  from  the  Schultzes.  She  recalled  that  the 
address  had  been  crossed  out  and  her  own  substituted 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  79 

in  which  she  now  remembered  to  resemble  Von  Pfaf- 
fen's  handwriting,  a' fact  which  had  made  no  impres 
sion  on  her  mind  at  the  time. 

She  lay  watching  the  square  of  the  window  grow 
gray  with  the  morning  light.  This  couldn't  come  to 
her,  she  thought ;  he  had  promised.  But  supposing  it 
were  true  ?  What  would  she  do  ? 

She  fell  asleep  at  last  with  the  sound  of  his  words 
in  her  ears,  "Don't  you  trust  me?" 

But  it  was  young  Franz  who  added  the  last  straw 
to  her  endurance.  He  came  hurrying  in  one  morn 
ing  several  days  later  to  get  a  portfolio  the  Captain 
wanted. 

"Good  morning,  Fraulein,"  was  the  young  man's 
greeting  as  old  Lena  let  him  into  the  living-room, 
"it's  nice  and  cozy  here,  I  wish  I  could  stay." 

Marie  pushed  one  of  the  big  chairs  nearer  the  stove. 

"Why  not  sit  down  awhile,"  she  smiled. 

Usually  her  manner  with  him  had  repelled  any 
advances,  but  to-day  she  wanted  to  talk  to  some  one, 
anyone,  even  this  flat-faced  boy. 

Franz  (Marie  had  never  learned  his  last  name), 
sank  stiffly  into  the  cushions  of  the  great  chair,  his 
hands  with  their  thick  fingers  spread  out  on  each 
knee,  the  toes  of  his  shiny  boots  turned  toward  one 
another,  round,  pale  blue  eyes  staring  fatuously  into 
her  face. 

"You  are  very  pretty,  Fraulein,"  he  began,  but 
Marie  interrupted  him. 

"Don't  compliment  me,  Herr  Lieutenant.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  if  you  have  a  few  minutes  to  spare." 


80  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

He  leaned  toward  her  with  a  smile  that  was  meant 
to  be  ingratiating. 

"Indeed  yes,  Fraulein,"  he  said  and  cleared  his 
throat.  "Indeed  yes !  My  time  is  at  the  disposal  of 
so  beautiful  a  young  lady." 

His  manner  was  such  a  ludicrous  imitation  of  the 
suave  tones  of  his  chief  that  Marie  almost  laughed  in 
his  face,  but  she  controlled  the  impulse  and  went 
straight  to  the  heart  of  her  question. 

"Tell  me,  when  will  all  this  be  finished?"  her  glance 
took  in  not  only  the  littered  table,  but  the  yellow 
portfolio  resting  at  the  side  of  his  chair. 

"That  I  do  not  know,  Fraulein.  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"Because,  I  am  waiting  for  that,  for  then  the 
Captain  and  I  are  to  be  married." 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Ach,  Fraulein,  you  will  have  a  long,  long  wait !" 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  Marie  was  her  own 
inquisitor  now. 

"Because,"  and  the  boy  rose  awkwardly,  shaking 
down  the  tight  blue  legs  of  his  uniform,  "because  the 
Herr  Captain's  work  is  never  finished." 

"Do  you  mean ?"  Marie  was  on  her  feet  now, 

the  scales  were  falling  fast  from  her  eyes. 

He  put  a  clumsy  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Come  Kraulein,  you're  too  pretty  to  worry,"  he 
said.  "If  tHe  Herr  Captain  grows  too  busy,  there's 
always  me." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Marie's  face  and  receded 
quickly  again,  leaving  her  very  lips  white. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go,"  she  said,  and  there 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  81 

was  that  in  her  manner  that  made  the  Lieutenant, 
after  one  look  into  her  eyes,  turn  on  his  heel  and  leave 
the  room,  closing  the  door  after  him  with  a  click. 

Marie  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless,  unseeing. 
They  were  right,  Franz  and  Lena.  She  had  been  a 
fool,  but  she  would  give  him  one  more  chance.  She 
would  put  the  question  to  him  unfalteringly  when 
he  came  in.  She  dragged  herself  over  to  the  window 
seat  and  sat  looking  down  into  the  square.  Her 
hands  clasped  and  unclasped  nervously,  her  teeth  tore 
at  her  underlip.  She  made  up  her  mind  she  would 
sit  there  and  watch  for  him,  no  matter  how  long  it 
would  be  before  he  came.  With  dry  eyes,  she  stared 
down  into  the  deserted  street,  for  even  the  nurse  maids 
and  their  charges  were  absent. 

It  was  one  of  those  windy  spring  days  when  the 
breath  of  winter  still  lingers  in  the  air  and  sends  the 
dust  whirling  in  eddies  about  the  street  and  around 
corners.  The  clouds  hung  low,  and  every  now  and 
then,  a  splash  of  rain  moistened  the  pavement. 

Two  women  were  coming  toward  each  other,  their 
skirts  blowing  against  their  limbs  and  outlining  them 
like  Greek  statues.  The  one  as  she  came  against  the 
wind,  held  her  head  low  to  guard  her  hat,  her  white 
stockings  showing  above  her  shoe  tops  as  her  skirts 
ballooned  behind  her.  The  other  leaned  against  the 
gale  and  almost  ran  with  funny  little  hurried  steps, 
as  the  wind  pushed  her  before  it,  one  hand  hanging 
onto  her  hat,  the  other  trying  to  steady  her  flying 
skirts. 

They  met,  passed,  and  left  the  street  once  more  to 
the  wind,  the  dust  eddies  and  scattered  pieces  of 


82  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

paper  which  danced  and  skittered  along  the 
pavement. 

Lena  came  in  after  awhile  to  find  out  if  Marie 
would  have  some  lunch,  but  the  girl  paid  no  heed  to 
her  question,  and  the  old  woman  shuffled  out  again, 
crossly. 

The  fire  died  down,  the  burnt  coals  clicking  as  they 
fell  through  the  grate  into  the  graying  pile  of  ashes. 
The  little  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  the  hour,  the 
half  hour,  and  again  the  hour,  but  Marie  sat  as  she 
had  sat  since  the  Lieutenant  left  her. 

Everything  Von  Pfaffen  had  ever  said  came  back 
to  her  clearly,  stripped  of  all  the  glamor,  all  the 
fascination,  all  the  hope  that  had  held  her  these  many 
weeks.  She  remembered  things  he  had  told  her  that 
were  deliberate  lies,  lies  so  cunningly  worded  that  she 
had  never  been  able  quite  to  accuse  him  of  them.  She 
found  herself  facing  the  fact,  that  almost  every  state 
ment  he  had  made  to  her,  though  made  with  the  posi 
tive  manner  of  assurance,  and  with  every  semblance 
of  truth,  had  been  utterly  false.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  great  growing  anger,  a  fierce  glow  of  hatred, 
resentment.  Her  eyes  narrowed,  her  lips  tightened. 
Once  for  all,  she  would  know  the  truth. 

Several  times  the  telephone  bell  shrilled  out,  but 
she  paid  no  heed,  and  then  at  last  a  huge  chocolate- 
colored  car  turned  the  corner  and  drew  up  at  the 
curb.  The  chauffeur  jumped  down  and  threw  open 
the  door.  Marie  flattened  her  face  against  the  win- 
dowpane. 

After  a  second,  the  Captain  stepped  onto  the  pave 
ment  and  a  slender,  white-gloved  hand  in  a  handsome 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  83 

sable  cuff,  was  held  out.  He  bowed  over  it,  and  turn 
ing  on  his  heel  entered  the  apartment  house.  The 
chauffeur  closed  the  door  and  with  a  purr,  the  car 
drew  away  from  the  curb  and  went  on  its  way. 

Marie  waited  to  hear  Von  Pfaffen's  key  in  the  lock, 
her  heart  pounding.  No  matter  what  his  mood,  she 
must  know  her  fate  now.  The  Lieutenant's  laugh  and 
Lena's  phrase  about  the  "others"  were  ringing  in 
her  ears. 

He  came  in  hurriedly  and  threw  his  hat  and  heavy 
fur-lined  coat  on  a  chair. 

"Well,  Marie,"  he  said  brusquely,  "I  have  only 
a  few  seconds.  Will  you  ring  for  Lena  to  bring  some 
coffee?" 

She  came  and  stood  beside  him  where  he  sat  at  the 
table  rummaging  among  the  litter. 

"I  must  speak  with  you,"  she  said,  "there  is  some 
thing  I  must  know." 

"I  am  busy  now,"  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the 
papers. 

"When  are  we  going  to  be  married?" 

The  Captain  let  his  thin  hand  rest  a  moment  on 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

"Are  you  worrying  about  that  again?"  he  asked, 
looking  up  at  her  with  a  frown.  "Haven't  I  told  you 
as  soon  as  my  work  is  finished?" 

"Your  work  will  never  be  finished!"  Marie  was 
echoing  the  Lieutenant's  words  in  almost  the  Lieu 
tenant's  stolid  tone. 

Von  Pfaffen's  face  darkened. 

"You're  nagging  again,"  he  said.  "I  have  too 
much  to  think  about  to  be  bothered  about  trifles.  If 


84.  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

you  are  not  satisfied  here,  I  have  no  doubt  the 
Schultzes  will  take  you  in  again." 

Marie  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  They  were 
right,  and  she  had  believed  him.  She  seized  him 
fiercely  by  the  coat  sleeve. 

"You  lied  to  me!"  she  cried.  "You  lied!  You 
never  meant  to  marry  me!  You  lied  to  me!"  and 
with  all  her  strength,  she  shook  at  his  arm  as  a  small 
terrier  might  shake  at  the  shaggy  coat  of  a  mastiff. 

Von  Pfaffen  turned  and  held  her  from  him. 

"I  marry  you?"  he  sneered,  "a  cabaret  singer!" 

Marie's  mouth  was  dry,  the  little  pulse  in  her 
throat  pounded  as  though  it  would  burst.  She  drew 
back  her  hand  and  struck  Von  Pfaffen  straight  across 
the  face. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  an  oath,  his  cheek  a  dull 
red,  excepting  where  the  mark  of  her  blow  showed 
livid. 

"You  little  devil,"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 
"What  do  you  think  you  could  ever  be  in  the  life  of 
a  man  like  me?  You  want  the  truth?  Well,  I'll  give 
it  to  you.  You  amused  me,  filled  in  long  hours,  when 
my  nerves  were  ready  to  snap.  Did  you  think  for 
a  second  that  a  woman  like  you  could  hold  me?  I 
thought  even  you  had  more  brains  than  really  to  be 
lieve  that!  I've  given  you  comfort,  I've  taken  care 
of  you,  I've  given  you  much  more  than — if  I  must 
speak  plainly — you  have  really  been  worth.  There 
are  things  of  so  much  more  moment  in  my  life  that 
even  this  explanation  is  taking  valuable  time ;  but 
I've  this  to  thank  you  for,  you  have  helped  me  tell 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  85 

you  what  I've  been  meaning  to,  that  as  soon  as  you 
care  to,  you  are  at  liberty  to  go !"' 

He  turned  away  from  the  flood  of  tears  he  expected 
to  follow  his  words,  but  the  girl  only  stood  staring 
at  him,  terrified. 

Her  mind  was  waking  slowly  to  another  phase  of 
the  world  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  Uncon 
sciously,  the  flower  of  her  life  was  opening,  develop 
ing,  and  the  development  was  agony.  She  had  learned 
grief  with  the  loss  of  her  father,  poverty  and  the 
struggle  for  existence  in  that  bitter  year,  and  now 
this! 

She  turned  with  a  dry  sob  and  stumbled  into  her 
room,  shutting  and  locking  the  door  after  her.  She 
must  think.  She  must  reason  out  what  to  do. 
Shame,  horrible,  scourging  shame,  swept  over  her. 
She  threw  herself  in  a  shuddering  heap  across  the 
counterpane  of  her  bed. 

Spent  with  the  grief  and  anguish  that  had  followed 
her  awakening,  she  lay  for  a  long  while  dully  repeat 
ing  over  and  over  the  phrase,  "he  lied  to  me !"  Pres 
ently  this  gave  place  to  resentment,  bitter  hatred, 
which  dried  her  tears.  Her  mind  was  swept  of  all 
illusions,  she  saw  things  clearly  as  they  were.  Once 
more  she  faced  a  crisis,  and  swiftly  she  made  her  de 
cision  as  to  what  course  she  must  follow.  She  sat 
up  listening  for  the  sounds  that  would  tell  of  Von 
Pfaffen's  departure. 

She  heard  him  rattle  the  poker  among  the  dead 
coals,  then  old  Lena  shuffle  in  and  set  down  the  coffee 
tray,  his  rough  dismissal  of  her  and  the  old  woman's 
angry  grunt.  The  telephone  rang  and  she  heard  the 


86  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

click  of  china,  as  he  hastily  set  down  his  cup  and 
went  to  answer  it.  She  heard  him  say,  "yes,  imme 
diately,  I'll  take  a  cab,  good-bye,"  and  her  imagina 
tion  followed  him  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver  and 
shrugged  himself  into  his  great  coat,  and  with  the 
sound  of  the  closing  door,  she  jumped  to  her  feet. 

Hastily  she  rummaged  in  her  bureau  drawer. 
There  were  two  or  three  bank  notes  and  some  gold, 
besides  some  small  change,  housekeeping  money. 
These  she  stuffed  into  her  purse,  they  would  stand 
between  her  and  starvation  for  a  little  while  at  least. 
She  took  her  suit  and  hat  from  the  clothes  press,  and 
slipping  off  her  blue  gown,  let  it  lie  on  the  floor  where 
it  fell.  She  kicked  off  the  little  satin  bedroom  slip 
pers  and  pulled  on  her  shoes. 

Once  in  her  clothes,  she  brought  out  her  small 
leather  traveling  case,  and  regardless  of  neatness  or 
precision,  she  tumbled  in  the  necessary  things.  She 
hesitated  over  the  few  jewels  Von  Pfaffen  had  given 
her,  with  the  thought  that  they  might  aid  her  in 
escaping.  She  decided,  however,  to  leave  them  and 
placed  them  where  they  could  easily  be  seen  on  her 
dressing-table.  Then,  carefully,  she  locked  and 
strapped  the  bag. 

Her  hat  was  pinned  securely,  she  fastened  the  collar 
of  her  coat,  and  with  a  last  look  about,  she  picked  up 
her  bag  and  left  the  house.  But  it  was  not  until  she 
felt  the  cold  air  of  the  outside  world  whipping  against 
her  cheeks,  that  she  realized  that  she  had  nowhere 
to  go. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  was  a  trolley  line  along  the  end  of  the 
street  where  Von  Pfaffen  lived,  and  almost  without 
her  own  volition,  Marie  found  herself  making  toward 
it.  She  boarded  the  first  tram  that  came  along,  re 
gardless  of  the  direction.  She  paid  her  fare  and  sat 
staring  ahead  of  her.  What  was  to  become  of  her? 
Across  the  way,  a  fat  market  woman  sat  mumbling 
her  gums.  Marie  found  herself  watching  the  huge, 
uncorseted  figure,  quivering  with  the  motion  of  the 
car. 

At  each  corner,  the  tram  stopped  and  people  kept 
getting  on  and  off,  continually  passing  between  Marie 
and  the  old  woman  who  dozed  and  woke  every  once 
in  a  while,  with  a  start. 

"I'll  get  off  where  she  does,"  thought  the  girl. 
"I'll  leave  it  to  Fate." 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  time,  the  old 
woman  pulled  herself  up  with  a  jerk,  gathered  her 
basket  and  various  other  bundles  and  waddled  out  of 
the  car.  Marie  jumped  to  her  feet  and  stumbled 
after  her.  She  stood  and  watched  the  ungainly  figure 
till  it  disappeared  round  a  corner,  then  she  looked 
about  to  see  where  she  was.  The  houses  seemed 
strangely  familiar,  and  suddenly,  she  realized  that 
she  was  near  the  little  flat  where  she  had  lived  with 
the  Schultzes.  Fate  was  kind. 

It  was  almost  with  joy  that  she  started  toward 

what  had  been  her  home.    True,  her  letters  had  been 

87 


88  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

unanswered,  sent  back  unopened,  but  kind  Frau 
Schultz  and  the  old  man  would  surely  not  turn  her 
away,  when  she  told  them  everything. 

With  a  beating  heart,  she  climbed  the  stair.  On 
the  second  landing,  a  slatternly  old  woman  put  her 
head  out  of  a  door. 

"Who  are  you  looking  for,  Fraulein?"  she  asked, 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 

Marie  told  her. 

"They're  not  here  any  more,"  croaked  the  crea 
ture.  "The  old  man's  dead,  he  had  a  stroke  or  some 
thing  ;  the  old  woman's  gone,  I  don't  know  where." 

Marie  choked  and  staggered  back  against  the  wall. 
Her  only  friends  in  all  the  city — one  of  them  dead, 
the  other  vanished. 

As  the  door  slammed,  the  girl  started  blindly  down 
the  stairs.  An  old  Bible  lesson  came  into  her  mind: 
"The  foxes  have  holes,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have 
nests;  but  the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his 
head." 

She  was  alone,  absolutely  alone  in  this  great  city, 
with  no  one  to  whom  she  could  go  for  help.  She 
walked  up  the  street  aimlessly,  slowly,  her  lips  mur 
muring  over  and  over :  "What  shall  I  do?  What  shall 
I  do?" 

On  the  corner  she  stopped.  She  realized  she  must 
collect  her  scattered  thoughts,  she  must  form  some 
plan.  It  was  growing  late,  here  and  there  the  street 
lights  were  beginning  to  flicker. 

Presently  two  men  came  toward  her.  She  watched 
them  as  they  drew  near,  half  conscious  of  what  she 
was  doing.  One  was  a  dark,  heavy-set  man  who  wore 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  89 

a  plaid  traveling  coat  and  carried  a  shabby  valise. 
The  other  was  younger,  quite  thin  and  stoop-shoul 
dered,  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  As  they 
passed  her,  Marie  heard  the  thin  man  say : 

"You  will  arrive  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  mein  Herr. 
I'm  sure  they  will  be  there  to  meet  you.  Parisians  are 
notably  hospitable." 

"We  must  hurry,  or  we'll  miss  the  train,"  rumbled 
the  other  in  a  deep  voice  and  they  swung  into  a 
brisker  walk  as  they  passed  Marie. 

Like  a  flash  she  had  the  answer  to  her  question.  In 
Paris,  lived  the  only  relatives  she  had  in  the  world, 
some  distant  cousins  of  her  mother's.  She  remem 
bered  that  once  her  father  had  brought  one  of  them 
to  the  convent  to  see  her.  She  remembered  the  kindly 
sparkle  in  his  eyes,  as  he  playfully  pinched  her  cheek 
and  told  her  that  some  day  when  she  was  grown,  she 
must  come  to  visit  them.  They  had  sent  her  a  letter 
of  sympathy  on  the  occasion  of  her  father's  death. 
She  would  go  to  Paris. 

She  had  half  forgotten  their  address,  but  she  would 
try  to  remember  it  on  the  train.  Turning,  she 
almost  ran  after  the  two  men  on  their  way  to  the 
railroad  station. 

At  the  ticket  office,  she  emptied  her  purse.  There 
was  very  little  left  when  she  had  paid  her  fare,  but 
it  was  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  Marie  followed  the 
porter  as  he  went  toward  the  train  with  her  bag. 
She  had  taken  a  second-class  ticket  and  he  thrust  her 
into  a  compartment,  holding  out  a  dirty  hand  for  his 
tip.  There  was  scarcely  time  to  pay  him  his  few 
hellers,  when  the  train  began  to  move,  and  with  a 


90  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

gasp  she  realized  that  she  was  starting  out  into  an 
absolutely  unknown  world,  with  almost  nothing  in 
her  purse  between  herself  and  starvation. 

The  compartment  was  empty.  She  took  off  her 
hat  and  tried  to  make  herself  as  comfortable  as  she 
could  for  the  long  journey  and,  as  the  train  came  to 
full  speed  and  they  left  the  city  behind,  she  stared 
out  into  the  darkness. 

She  tried  to  remember  where  this  cousin  she  was 
setting  out  to  find,  lived.  His  name  was  Le  Grand — 
Jules  Le  Grand — the  address  was — the  address  was — 
and  Marie,  exhausted  by  the  bitter  disappointments 
of  the  day  was  sound  asleep. 

Toward  midnight,  she  awoke.  Pain,  humiliation, 
anxiety,  returned.  The  dim  emptiness  of  the  swaying 
railway  carriage  seemed  to  symbolize  her  own  life. 
She  was  so  utterly  helpless,  so  absolutely  alone,  being 
carried  on  swiftly  by  a  force  over  which  she  had  no 
control. 

She  tried  to  remember  the  Paris  address  as  she  sat 
and  stared  at  the  lamp  in  the  ceiling,  swinging  with 
the  motion  of  the  train. 

"Avenue — Avenue "  she  kept  repeating,  when 

suddenly  it  came  to  her.      "Avenue  Victor   Hugo, 
Number  Five  Bis!" 

She  almost  cried  aloud  with  joy.  Paris  was  no 
longer  a  desert  to  her.  There  was  such  a  place  as  the 
Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  Number  Five  Bis — there  was 
such  a  person  as  Monsieur  Jules  Le  Grand.  There 
was  some  one  in  the  world  to  whom  she  could  go,  and 
Vienna,  Von  Pfaffen  and  all  the  months  she  had  spent 
with  him,  that  chapter  was  closed,  finished  forever. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  91 

She  dug  her  nails  in  her  palms. 

"I'm  going  to  bury  it  all,"  she  whispered  to  her 
self.  "I'm  going  to  bury  it  deep.  None  of  it  ever 
happened.  I'm  going  to  be  born  again  the  day  I 
reach  Paris." 

Early  in  the  morning  the  train  rumbled  into  the 
station  at  Munich,  and  a  fat  guard  snapped  open  the 
door  of  her  compartment,  shouting: 

"Aus  steigen!    Milnchen!" 

She  gathered  her  wraps  and  the  little  bag  and  fol 
lowed  the  ungainly  porter  to  where  the  Paris  train 
was  waiting  at  the  far  end  of  the  platform. 

This  time  the  compartment  was  almost  filled. 

Two  English  women  were  already  settled  for  the 
long  journey,  each  deeply  immersed  in  a  small  red 
guide-book.  In  one  corner,  a  smart  little  Viennese 
with  penciled  eyebrows  and  reddened  lips,  smiled  to 
herself  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  other 
two  corners  were  also  filled.  One,  by  a  heavy,  over 
dressed  Jewess.  The  other,  piled  with  the  luggage 
of  the  two  English  women.  Marie  had  not  the 
temerity  to  ask  them  to  remove  it,  so  she  sat  silently 
in  the  small  space  allotted  her. 

The  train  began  to  jolt  and  slowly  pulled  out  of 
the  station,  gathering  speed,  till  finally  it  swung  clear 
of  the  houses  of  Munich  and  out  into  the  country. 

It  was  a  drizzly  cold  day,  with  a  leaden  sky,  and 
the  landscape,  as  they  flew  by,  looked  cheerless  and 
sodden. 

From  the  pile  of  luggage,  the  English  women  ex 
tracted  a  tea-basket  and  prepared  to  make  tea.  One 
of  them  offered  Marie  a  cup. 


92 

She  refused  it  with  a  shake  of  her  head  and  a  mur 
mured,  "Thank  you." 

The  little  Viennese  began  humming  to  herself.  She 
was  munching  some  cakes  out  of  a  paper  bag,  and  the 
crumbs  kept  falling  on  her  lap.  She  brushed  them 
away  with  a  none-too-clean  hand. 

"It's  a  long  journey!"  said  the  fat  Jewess. 

The  little  Viennese  smiled. 

"Sometimes  long  journeys  have  happy  endings," 
she  said. 

The  two  English  women  were  talking  to  each  other 
in  low  voices. 

Marie  only  knew  a  few  words  of  their  language, 
and  she  listened  half  curiously  to  the  sharp,  sibilant 
sounds  as  the  women  evidently  discussed  the  places 
mentioned  in  their  guide-books. 

What  a  strange  language  English  was,  she 
thought,  every  other  word  seeming  to  end  with  a 
sharp  hiss. 

The  fat  Jewess,  encouraged  by  the  smile  of  the 
little  Viennese,  began  a  voluble  one-sided  conver 
sation. 

Marie  watched  the  lamp  above  her  head  sway  back 
and  forth.  As  the  trees  and  villages  flew  past,  each 
one  bringing  her  nearer  this  great  unknown  city,  she 
wondered  if  there  might  be  a  possibility  of  her  finding 
happiness  there. 

She  became  aware  that  the  two  English  women  were 
discussing  her,  their  eyes  taking  in  the  details  of  her 
costume.  It  made  her  uncomfortable.  She  wondered 
if  there  was  anything  about  her  appearance  that  was 
in  the  least  indicative  of  what  she  had  been  through. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  93 

The  long  day  wore  on,  in  fitful  conversation,  brief, 
uneasy  snatches  of  sleep,  weary  watching  of  the  flying 
landscape. 

As  the  light  died,  the  two  English  women  settled 
themselves  for  the  night  and  were  soon  asleep,  their 
mouths  open  in  unlovely  abandon.  The  fat  Jewess 
ostentatiously  turned  her  rings  with  the  stones  inside 
her  hands  and  sank  into  a  noisy  slumber.  Marie 
leaned  her  head  back  wearily  against  the  dusty  red 
velvet  cushions,  and  closed  her  eyes,  but  the  sleep  she 
so  longed  for  as  a  blessed  respite  from  her  thoughts, 
would  not  come. 

Toward  midnight,  she  sat  up  with  the  sudden  stop 
ping  of  the  train,  as  did  the  other  occupants  of  the 
compartment.  They  were  crossing  the  border  and 
the  custom  officers  were  going  through  the  luggage. 

"Sugar?  Chocolate?  Matches?  Cigars?"  she 
heard  them  say,  as  one  by  one  the  bags  were  sleepily 
opened  and  gone  through,  sleepily  locked  and 
strapped  again,  and  a  sticky  stamp  pasted  on  the 
outside.  Then  the  door  was  slammed  and  locked  and 
they  all  settled  down  once  more  to  slumber,  but  to 
Marie,  sleep  would  not  come. 

The  train  sped  on  and  as  the  morning  broke,  the 
others  began  to  stir.  The  two  English  women  made 
their  toilets  with  the  aid  of  a  handsome  leather  dress 
ing-case.  The  little  Viennese  sat  up  and  reddened  her 
lips  with  a  tiny  lipstick,  and  fluffed  her  hair.  This 
done,  from  somewhere  in  her  small  bag  she  brought 
out  a  paper  bag  filled  with  food  and  began  munching 
it,  happily  smiling  to  herself  as  she  stared  out  of 
the  window.  The  fat  Jewess  awoke  with  a  yawn. 


94  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked  in  guttural  German, 
but  as  nobody  answered,  she  busied  herself  turning 
her  rings  right  side  out,  and  smoothing  her  carefully 
dressed  hair  with  the  palms  of  her  plump  white  hands. 

Day  had  arrived. 

Marie  listlessly  watched  them  preen  themselves. 
She  gave  a  cursory  pat  to  her  own  hair,  a  cursory 
straightening  to  her  collar.  She  sat  up  very  straight. 
Her  head  twisted  to  see  the  flying  landscape.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  excitement,  but  under  her 
eyes  lay  violet  shadows.  Her  lips  trembled  like  a 
child's  about  to  cry.  She  was  frightened  again,  now 
that  she  was  hearing  Paris.  What  was  she  going  to 
find  there?  Suppose,  after  all,  the  address  she  re 
membered  was  wrong?  Suppose  Monsieur  Le  Grand 
had  moved?  With  thoughts  like  this,  she  tortured 
herself.  She  blinked  back  the  tears  and  bit  her  lips. 
She  must  not  break  down  now. 

After  what  seemed  centuries,  the  train  rumbled  into 
the  dark  cavern  of  the  Gare  du  Nord.  The  English 
women  stuck  their  heads  out  of  the  window,  calling: 

"Portier!    Portier!" 

The  little  Viennese  gathered  her  small  belongings. 
As  the  train  came  to  a  standstill,  and  the  guard 
opened  the  door,  she  was  out  like  a  flash,  and  Marie 
saw  her  running  with  a  happy  laugh  into  a  pair  of 
masculine  arms  held  out  to  her. 

The  English  women  loaded  a  thin  porter  with  their 
luggage  which  almost  hid  him  from  view,  and  sedately 
followed  him  along  the  platform. 

The  fat  Jewess  slowly  gathered  her  valises  and 
packages  and  stood  blocking  the  doorway  while  she 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  95 

bargained  with  the  porter.  Coming  at  last  to  an 
agreement,  she  stepped  heavily  down  and  waddled 
after  him. 

Marie,  in  the  shadow  of  the  deserted  compartment, 
waited,  too  frightened  to  move.  The  platform  was  a 
babel  of  voices,  shrieking  porters,  scolding  guards, 
trunks  going  this  way  and  that,  people  jostling  each 
other  as  they  came  and  went. 

At  last  a  porter  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  asked,  "are  you  staying  here 
always?" 

She  was  trembling  as  she  stepped  onto  the  plat 
form,  and  the  man  eyed  her  curiously. 

"Taxi?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes,"  gasped  Marie,  "of  course." 

She  followed  him  through  the  maze,  and  handed 
her  ticket  to  the  gate-keeper.  As  she  stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  great  station,  waiting  till  the  man  should 
have  found  her  a  cab,  a  sense  of  utter  desolation  came 
over  her.  Paris,  gay,  wonderful,  laughing  Paris, 
lay  before  her,  but  to  the  girl,  it  seemed  as  though 
she  were  staring  into  Chaos  itself. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  taxi  rolled  along  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
finally,  turned  into  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo  and 
stopped  at  Number  Five  Bis. 

"Behold,  we  have  arrived,  Mademoiselle,"  smiled 
the  driver  genially,  as  he  turned  about  and  looked 
down  at  her  from  his  seat. 

Marie  rose  hurriedly  and  stepped  to  the  street.  As 
she  opened  her  purse  to  pay  the  man,  she  suddenly 
realized  that  she  had  nothing  but  Austrian  money. 

"I  have  no  French  money.  Will  you — can  you  take 
this?"  and  she  held  out  a  small  handful  of  hellers  and 
kronen. 

The  man  looked  dubiously  at  the  unfamiliar  coins, 
and  lifted  expressive  shoulders. 

"But  Mademoiselle,  what  can  I  do  with  those?" 
he  said.  "Go  in  the  house  and  get  it  from  your 
friends." 

Marie's  heart  sank.  Suppose  the  Le  Grands  no 
longer  lived  here !  Suppose  a  thousand  things !  But 
realizing  that  the  man  must  be  paid,  she  decided  to 
do  as  he  suggested.  She  stooped  to  pick  up  her  bag, 
but  he  stopped  her. 

"Oh  no,  Mademoiselle,  allow  me,"  and  taking  it 
from  her,  he  followed  her  to  the  door.  It  was  a  long 
way  from  the  Gave  du  Nord.  He  was  not  anxious  to 
lose  sight  of  his  fare. 

A  stout,  red-haired  man  with  weak  eyes  and  a  green 

apron  tied  loosely  about  him.  opened  the  door. 

96 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  97 

"Does  Monsieur  Le  Grand,  Monsieur  Jules  Le 
Grand  live  here?"  asked  Marie  nervously. 

It  seemed  an  age  to  her  before  he  answered. 

"But  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "they  have  been  living 
here  this  long  time." 

"Will  you  take  me  to  them,  please?"  Marie 
could  have  thrown  her  arms  about  his  thick  neck. 

The  man  bowed  politely,  and  picking  up  her  bag, 
led  the  way. 

She  turned  to  the  waiting  driver. 

"I'll  send  down  your  money.  Wait,  please !"  she 
said,  and  followed  the  red-haired  man  through  the 
doorway  into  the  courtyard. 

He  handed  her  into  the  little  ascenseur,  and  touch 
ing  the  button,  bowed  as  he  closed  the  door. 

On  the  way  up,  Marie  repeated  a  prayer  of  grati 
tude  over  and  over  to  herself,  adding  one  with  the 
hope  that  these  cousins  would  be  glad  to  see  her. 

As  she  got  out  at  the  door  of  the  Le  Grand  apart 
ment,  a  neat  little  maid  opened  it. 

"Is  Monsieur  Le  Grand  at  home?"  she  asked  tim 
idly,  and  as  the  girl  answered  in  the  affirmative,  she 
added,  "tell  him  his  cousin  from  Vienna — his  cousin 
Marie  Helmar  is  here!" 

Almost  as  she  spoke,  a  tall  stout  man  with  a  heavy 
black  beard  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  what  seemed 
to  be  a  little  salon. 

He  looked  at  Marie  a  moment  and  then  came 
toward  her  with  both  hands  extended. 

"Ah,  my  little  cousin,"  he  cried  in  a  cheerful  bass 
voice.  "My  little  cousin !  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Welcome  to  Paris !"  He  kissed  her  resoundingly  on 


98  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

both  cheeks,  and  drew  her  in  through  the  door  which 
the  neat  little  maid  closed  after  her. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Jules,"  and  Marie  let  the  foolish  tears 
run  down  her  cheeks  as  they  would,  "I  was  so  afraid 
you  wouldn't  remember  me !  I  was  so  afraid  you 
wouldn't  live  here  any  more !" 

"Maman"  called  Monsieur  Le  Grand,  "come  and 
see  who  is  here!" 

"Please,  cousin  Jules,"  hesitated  Marie,  "the  taxi 
driver  is  waiting.  My  money  is  all  Austrian — could 

you ?"  and  she  displayed  her  purse  with  its 

foreign  coins. 

The  big  man  laughed. 

"Surely,  little  cousin,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  a  leather 
bag  from  his  pocket,  and  extracted  the  necessary 
francs.  "Here,  Julie,  run  and  pay  the  man,"  and 
picking  up  Marie's  bag  he  led  the  way  into  the  salon. 

Madame  Le  Grand  was  a  pretty  little  woman, 
round  and  dimpled,  her  hair  and  eyes  as  black  as  the 
shining  silk  of  her  gown.  Two  tall,  slim  girls  stood 
beside  her,  their  eyes  dark  like  their  mother's,  their 
straight  hair  loose  over  their  shoulders. 

"This  is  the  little  Marie,  Maman"  smiled  the  big 
man,  "this  is  the  little  blond  cousin  from  Vienna,"  and 
he  led  the  girl  forward. 

Madame  Le  Grand  kissed  her  affectionately  as  did 
both  the  girls.  Monsieur  Le  Grand  and  Maman,  who 
she  found  was  to  be  called  Cousin  Fra^ine,  asking 
questions  volubly.  How  long  had  she  to  stay?  Why 
had  she  not  let  them  know?  Why  had  they  not  heard 
from  her  since  the  lawyer  had  written  of  her  poor 
papa's  death?  Did  she  know  how  much  she  looked 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  99 

like  her  poor  papa?  Or  was  it  her  poor  mamma  she 
resembled?  And  so  on,  and  so  on,  until  finally  for 
sheer  want  of  breath,  they  stopped,  and  Marie  began. 

"I  didn't  decide  to  come  until  the  day  before  yes 
terday,"  she  said  in  her  careful  French;  "but  now,  I 
am  not  going  back.  I  expect  to  make  my  home  in 
Paris.  I  must  find  employment." 

Monsieur  Le  Grand  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"You  must  earn  your  own  living?" 

"Yes;  poor  papa  left  me  very  little,  and  it  is  all 
gone." 

Her  cousins  looked  at  each  other  sadly. 

"Never  mind,"  soothed  the  big  black-bearded  man, 
"to-day  you  will  be  comfortable  and  have  a  good  rest. 
To-morrow  we  will  discuss  your  affairs." 

"Fleurette,  my  angel,"  said  Madame  to  one  of  the 
girls,  "show  Cousin  Marie  into  the  little  blue  room. 
You  can  arrange  your  toilette,  my  dear,  and  after 
ward  Sidonie  will  come  and  get  you  for  luncheon." 

Marie  smiled  gratefully.  How  wonderful  things 
were.  Madame  patted  her  kindly  on  the  arm  as  she 
turned  and  followed  one  of  the  two  tall  girls. 

The  blue  room  proved  to  be  very  pretty,  dainty 
and  sweet  as  the  one  Marie  had  had  in  her  father's 
house.  The  sight  of  it  brought  back  the  thought  of 
him  bitterly,  and  tears  welled  into  her  eyes. 

Fleurette  comforted  her  shyly,  and  after  refresh 
ing  her  face  and  brushing  out  her  soft  hair  with 
Fleurette's  interested  assistance,  she  opened  her  bag 
and  shook  out  a  fresh  blouse  which  she  proceeded  to 
put  on. 

"What   should   I  have   done   if   you   had   moved 


100  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

away?"  she  asked,  and  Fleurette  shrugged  expres 
sive  and  sympathetic  shoulders. 

Presently,  Sidonie,  the  second  of  the  two  sisters, 
came  in  to  say  that  luncheon  was  ready,  and  with  one 
of  her  young  cousins  on  either  arm,  Marie  went  into 
the  dining-room. 

It  was  a  happier  meal  than  she  had  eaten  for  some 
time.  Truly,  she  was  born  again.  Here,  no  one 
knew  anything  about  her,  excepting  that  she  had 
been  raised  in  a  convent  and  was  her  father's  daugh 
ter.  The  girl  found  herself  wondering  if  she  were 
dreaming,  if  suddenly  she  should  awaken  and  find 
that  all  these  cheerful,  black-eyed  cousins  had  disap 
peared,  and  Von  Pfaffen's  hard,  cruel  face  was  oppo 
site  her. 

But  one  thing  she  had  learned  from  him  was  that 
her  face  must  be  a  mask  to  conceal  emotions,  not  a 
window  to  let  them  shine  through. 

She  had  learned  that  her  "convent  eyes"  as  Von 
Pfaffen  used  to  call  them,  were  a  useful  asset,  and 
though  her  faith  and  trust  in  the  world  had  died,  she 
shut  her  resentment  resolutely  away  and  smiled. 

The  time  passed  pleasantly,  and  that  night  Marie 
slept  soundly  for  the  first  time  in  many  days.  When 
she  opened  her  eyes  the  next  morning,  the  sun  was 
streaming  into  her  room.  She  felt  it  to  be  a  happy 
omen,  a  harbinger  of  better  things. 

That  afternoon  Monsieur  Le  Grand  called  her  to 
him. 

"We  have  been  talking,  the  good  Maman  and  I," 
he  said  in  his  rumbling  bass  voice.  "Would  you  like 
to  stay  here  with  us,  even  after  your  visit  is  over, 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  101 

and,  well,  teach  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  the  German 
language,  a  little  painting,  and  perhaps  some  music? 
Would  you  like  that?  " 

Maman  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

"Would  you,  little  cousin?"  she  asked. 

Marie's  heart  was  full.  This  was  almost  too  good 
a  fortune  to  be  true,  but  she  managed  to  answer  them 
gratefully. 

"You  are  so  kind,  so  good,  what  would  I  have  done 
if  I  had  not  found  you?  What  I  can,  I  will 
gladly  do." 

This  past  year  was  one  that  had  shaken  her  faith 
in  every  one  and  everything,  but  surely  these  people 
must  be  genuine.  She  was  afraid,  however,  to  give 
way  to  the  feeling  of  comfort  and  trust  that  filled 
her,  her  experiences  had  taught  her  suspicion  of  those 
about  her.  Sadly  she  realized  that  convention  some 
times  requires  people  to  do  and  say  things  to  impress 
the  ear  and  the  eye  only.  She  knew  now,  that  real 
personalities  were  guarded  jealously.  One's  real  self 
must  be  carefully  concealed  from  the  knowledge  and 
the  eyes  of  those  with  whom  one  came  in  contact.  She 
was  afraid  to  trust  what  seemed  so  sincere,  so  kindly. 
She  must  weigh  even  her  seemingly  generous  cousins. 
She  must  try  and  analyze  even  their  motives  and  be 
on  her  guard.  But  she  also  knew  she  must  let  none 
of  these  thoughts  be  seen. 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  her  cousin  and  his  wife 
and  looked  into  their  eyes  with  her  own  wide  blue 
ones,  and  so  her  new  life,  the  life  that  was  born  again, 
began. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  days  passed  swiftly  for  Marie.  The  kindly 
hearts  of  the  Le  Grands  were  won  almost  immediately 
by  her  sweetness  and  charm,  her  appealing  air  of 
innocence  that  seemed  to  demand  protection.  They 
surrounded  her  with  an  atmosphere  of  love,  of  gen 
erous  kindness,  and  Marie's  nervousness  began  to 
leave  her.  She  and  the  two  girls  took  long  walks 
through  the  blossoming  Bois,  or  along  the  beautiful 
Champs  Elysees.  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  never  tired 
of  showing  their  Austrian  cousin  the  sights  of  their 
beloved  Paris,  and  Marie  found  herself  forgetting  the 
bitter  winter  in  Vienna.  It  was  as  though  there  had 
been  some  horrible  nightmare  from  which  she  had 
awakened  into  the  sunshine  of  spring. 

At  first,  she  used  to  start  up  suddenly  in  the  night, 
shuddering  with  the  thought  of  what  would  happen 
if  her  cousins  should  come  to  know  the  truth.  Some 
times,  while  she  was  giving  a  German  lesson  to  Fleu 
rette  and  Sidonie,  the  familiar  tones  of  her  own  lan 
guage  recalled  the  days  in  Vienna  which  she  was 
trying  to  forget,  and  made  her  sink  back  into  her 
chair,  white  and  shaken. 

At  such  times,  Fleurette  would  pat  her  hand  sym 
pathetically  and  comfort  her  for  what  she  supposed 
was  homesickness,  and  Sidonie  would  jump  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  Cousin,  no  more  lessons  now,  the  sun  is 

shining,  we  must  walk  in  the  Bois." 

102 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  103 

Little  by  little,  Marie's  fears  of  their  finding  out 
faded  away,  and  her  conscience  ceased  to  trouble  her. 
No  one  who  had  known  her  in  Vienna  was  ever  likely 
to  come  here.  Old  Herr  Schultz  was  dead,  his  wife 
would  never  leave  her  native  country.  Besides  these 
two,  there  were  only  Von  Pf  affen  and  the  young  Lieu 
tenant,  who  knew;  and  they,  she  felt  sure,  would 
never  cross  her  path  again.  Little  by  little  her  con 
fidence  in  people  began  to  return,  at  least  in  these 
cousins  of  hers  and  their  friends.  Her  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  of  character,  began  to  expand.  She 
was  able  to  put  people  in  their  proper  niches,  as  it 
were,  and  hide  her  own  fear  and  distrust  under  a 
cloak  of  shyness  and  reticence. 

Happy  in  this  pleasant  environment,  her  cheeks 
grew  round,  her  color  came  back,  and  the  sparkle 
that  was  in  her  eyes  in  the  convent  days,  shone  from 
them  again.  Her  cousin  Jules,  she  found,  was  some 
thing  of  a  personage,  and  there  were  always  people 
of  more  or  less  importance  coming  to  see  him,  but 
Marie  and  the  two  girls  seldom  met  any  of  these 
visitors.  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  were  still  too  young, 
and  so  she  stayed  with  them,  but  on  the  days  when 
there  were  no  guests,  the  little  family  were  all  very 
happy  together. 

The  Le  Grands  belonged  to  that  class  of  French 
people  whose  family  is  the  heart  of  their  life,  who 
live  only  for  the  development  of  their  own  immediate 
circle,  who  are  economical,  yet  generous  and  hospi 
table,  and  Marie  was  beginning  to  realize  that  here 
she  could  shut  away  suspicion  and  be  happy. 

Monsieur  Le  Grand  always  insisted  on  hearing  the 


104  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

girls  repeat  their  German  verbs.  He  would  burst 
into  roars  of  laughter  at  their  struggles  with  the 
heavy  gutturals.  Madame,  on  those  occasions,  always 
sat  by  a  little  table  on  which  a  red-shaded  lamp  lit 
up  her  dark  prettiness  and  sparkled  on  her  black  silk 
gown,  flashing  back  from  her  rings  as  she  knitted  or 
crocheted. 

Marie's  life  was  full.  She  gave  the  girls  their  les 
sons,  took  long  walks  with  them  and  sometimes  would 
go  on  a  bewildering  shopping  excursion  with  Cousin 
Fra^ine ;  and  so  gradually  the  bitterness  of  the  past 
was  shut  away  in  a  corner  of  her  memory. 

One  afternoon,  Sidonie  burst  into  her  room  in 
great  excitement,  Fleurette  following  at  her  heels. 

"Marie,"  she  cried,  "we  are  to  be  at  dinner  to 
night  !  There  will  be  a  guest,  but  the  good  papa 
says  we  may  come,  because  he  is  young,  like  us.  We 
think  he's  wonderful.  We  hope  you'll  like  him  too." 

"I  am  to  wear  my  white  lace  dress  with  the  blue 
sash,"  said  Fleurette. 

"And  I  shall  wear  mine,  also,"  added  Sidonie. 

"But,"  began  Marie,  "I  cannot  come,  I  have  noth 
ing  to  wear !" 

"Oh,  yes  you  have,"  laughed  Fleurette.  "I  un 
packed  your  bag  the  night  you  came.  I  saw  a  pretty 
little  white  frock  in  it.  It  was  badly  crushed,  but 
we'll  take  it  to  Julie,  and  she  will  press  it  out  as  good 
as  new,"  and  skipping  to  the  clothes  press,  she  began 
searching. 

Marie  remembered  with  a  shudder,  that  she  had 
crumpled  the  white  dress  she  had  worn  at  the  "Two 
Eagles,"  into  her  bag.  She  abhorred  the  thought  of 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  105 

wearing  it.  It  would  bring  back  bitter  memories, 
but  she  could  not  come  to  dinner  when  there  would 
be  a  guest,  dressed  as  she  was. 

The  girls  were  examining  the  simple  frock  which 
Fleurette  had  unearthed. 

"I  think  it's  very  nice,"  decided  Sidonie.  "I'll 
take  it  right  down  to  Julie  and  she  will  press  it  for 

you." 

"And  you  must  do  all  this  wonderful  golden  hair 
in  a  pretty  fluffy  way,"  said  Fleurette,  "no  flat 
braids  to-night,  cousin.  We'll  all  play  that  we're 
grown  up.  Won't  it  be  fun!"  and  she  danced  away 
with  the  crushed  white  muslin  over  her  arm. 

Marie  stood  by  her  window  thinking.  She  hated 
to  put  on  the  white  dress,  to  pile  her  hair  up  under 
a  high  comb.  It  all  seemed  as  though  she  were  going 
to  the  "Two  Eagles"  again  to  sing.  She  wouldn't, 
she  couldn't  do  it.  She  would  tell  the  girls  when  they 
came  in,  that  she  was  ill.  She  would  make  any  excuse 
so  as  to  stay  in  her  room.  She  would  destroy  that 
dress.  She  wondered  why  she  had  ever  brought  it. 

The  window  stood  open  to  the  soft  June  air.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  the  casing  and  let  the  breeze 
fan  her  hot  cheeks. 

She  squared  her  shoulders.  Why  should  the  dress 
bring  back  memories  ?  That  life  was  dead  and  buried. 
It  had  never  been !  She  turned  from  the  window,  and 
began  to  let  down  her  fair  hair  as  Fleurette  and 
Sidonie  came  in  carefully  carrying  the  freshened 
muslin.  It  was  beautifully  pressed.  They  laid  it 
primly  across  the  bed. 

"You  will  look  just  like  one  of  the  angels,  all  yellow 


106  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

hair  and  white  wings,"  said  Fleurette,  coming  over 
to  her,  and  drawing  her  shining  tresses  through  her 
fingers. 

"A  little  Sainte  Marie,"  said  Sidonie,  and  then 
glancing  at  her  own  reflection,  she  added,  "I  wish  I 
were  a  blonde.  Nobody  ever  thinks  of  a  black  Saint," 
and  she  made  a  grimace  at  her  own  image  in  the 
mirror. 

"It  is  late  now,"  reminded  Marie.  "Better  go  and 
dress.  When  you  are  ready,  come  back  for  me.  I 
shall  be  frightened  to  meet  a  stranger  alone." 

The  girls  laughed  and  hurried  away. 

Marie  closed  the  door  after  them.  Then  she  went 
over  to  the  bed  and  stood  looking  down  on  the  fluffy 
whiteness  in  which  she  had  been  so  miserable. 

"What  a  horrible  time  I  had  when  I  wore  you 
last,"  she  said  to  it.  "I  wonder  what  will  happen 
to-night,"  and  half  fearfully,  she  began  arranging 
the  wavy  masses  of  her  hair. 

When  the  girls  came  back  for  her  later,  resplendent 
in  their  soft  frocks,  each  with  its  pale  blue  sash  tied 
in  exactly  the  same  manner,  they  uttered  little 
shrieks  of  delight  over  Marie. 

"But  you  are  lovely,  cousin,"  cried  Fleurette. 
"Your  shoulders  are  like  snow."  She  looked  very 
fair  and  golden  in  contrast  to  their  vivid  coloring. 

"When  I  am  grown,  I  shall  do  my  hair  like  that," 
said  Sidonie,  "only  it  isn't  the  right  color." 

Marie  laughed. 

"Your  hair  is  just  the  color  it  should  be  for  you. 
Are  you  really  pleased  with  me  ?" 

They  assured  her  joyously  that  she  was  perfection 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  107 

itself,  and  indeed  she  was  a  dainty  figure;  rounder, 
more  mature  than  on  that  day  not  so  many  months 
before,  when  she  had  donned  the  white  frock  to  go 
to  the  "Two  Eagles."  There  was  a  flush  on  her 
cheeks  which  had  not  been  there  the  last  time  she  had 
worn  it. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let  us  go  and  see  the  good 
parents,"  and  giving  a  hand  to  each  of  the  girls  they 
started  sedately  for  the  drawing-room. 

"How  charming  you  look  this  evening,"  smiled  Le 
Grand.  "You  will  like  my  young  friend;  he  is  an 
officer  in  the  army.  His  parents  live  in  a  fine  old 
chateau  somewhere  near  the  frontier." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  the  maid  opened  the  door  and 
announced  Captain  de  la  Motte. 

Fleurette  and  Sidonie,  suddenly  shy,  stepped  back 
of  their  mother,  while  Monsieur  went  forward  to  greet 
his  guest. 

He  was  a  tall,  slender  man  of  about  thirty,  very 
sunburnt,  with  a  lighter  line  across  his  forehead, 
where  his  cap  had  rested.  His  eyes  were  wide  and 
brown,  and  his  dark  hair  combed  straight  back  from 
his  forehead,  had  a  slight  wave  in  it.  His  mouth  was 
full  and  almost  Greek  in  outline,  and  the  lean,  strong 
lines  of  his  face  were  clean  shaven. 

Monsieur  Le  Grand  made  the  presentation  in  the 
graceful  manner  of  the  cultured  Frenchman. 

The  visitor  smiled  a  flashing  smile  that  lit  up  his 
face  and  showed  a  row  of  very  white,  even  teeth. 

Marie  sat  shyly  quiet  through  the  evening,  but 
her  mind  and  eyes  were  alert.  There  was  a  boyish 
ingenuousness  about  this  man  that  was  refreshing. 


108  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

It  seemed  to  deny  his  knowledge  of  certain  phases 
of  life,  seemed  to  stamp  him  as  different  from  the 
men  with  whom  she  had  come  in  contact.  Surely 
there  must  be  some  men  who  could  be  trusted.  She 
wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  back  of  those  clear 
eyes,  might  lurk  deception,  whether  the  smile  that 
seemed  so  worthy  of  trust,  hid  falseness.  But  in 
spite  of  the  involuntary  distrust  that  was  the  result 
of  her  experience,  her  interest  was  aroused.  His 
frank  camaraderie  with  her  two  young  cousins,  the 
amusing  tales  he  told  of  the  barracks,  his  keen  sense 
of  humor  that  was  expressed  in  clear,  hearty  laugh 
ter,  put  her  wonderfully  at  her  ease,  and  above  all 
things  he  had  unmistakably  that  distinctive  manner 
which  proclaimed  him  a  gentleman.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  evening,  and  when  at  last  he  rose  to  go, 
deep  in  her  heart  was  a  half-formed  wish  that  here, 
at  least,  she  might  be  off  the  guard  she  had  so 
strictly  imposed  upon  herself. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  her  room  that  night,  after  he  had  left,  Marie 
slipped  off  the  white  frock,  shook  out  the  folds  almost 
tenderly  and  hung  it  carefully  away.  She  stood 
for  a  moment  in  deep  thought,  then  she  went  to  the 
dressing-table  and  picking  up  the  hand-mirror,  be 
gan  examining  her  delicate  profile,  the  way  her  hair 
grew  about  the  nape  of  her  white  neck.  The  blue 
ribbons  in  her  dainty  camisole  outlined  her  slim  shoul 
ders  and  matched  the  blueness  of  her  eyes.  It  was 
a  very  lovely  face  that  looked  back  at  her  from  the 
mirror.  Marie  had  never  thought  of  her  personal 
appearance  as  a  vital  asset  before;  now,  however, 
with  the  memory  of  a  flashing  smile,  a  frank  boyish 
face  before  her,  she  examined  herself  closely.  Was 
she  really  attractive,  she  wondered?  She  lacked  the 
egotism,  the  self-knowledge  which  is  able  to  catalogue 
its  own  charms.  The  desire  to  be  appreciated,  how 
ever,  was  strong  in  her.  Her  sensitive  nature  was 
instinctively  conscious  of  approval  or  disapproval. 

She  rested  her  elbows  on  the  dressing-table  and 
propped  her  chin  in  her  cupped  hands.  Could  she 
dare  hope  for  happiness  such  as  came  into  the  lives 
of  other  girls  ? 

This  was  the  sort  of  man  that  had  filled  her  dreams 
at  the  convent,  tall  and  straight,  with  the  supple 
slimness  of  a  man  of  action.  But  she  had  only 
dreamed.  In  actual  life  she  had  found  men  very  dif 
ferent.  Might  not  his  pleasing  manner  and  boyish 

109 


110  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

friendliness  be  only  another  sort  of  mask,  hiding  per 
haps  as  much  calculation,  as  much  designing  selfish 
ness,  as  had  that  other  of  paternal  kindness? 

Her  experience  had  been  too  bitter.  She  dared  not 
lower  the  barriers  a  second  time.  She  was  in  that 
most  unhappy  state  of  mind  which  follows  the  loss  of 
faith  and  trust  in  others. 

What  was  the  matter  with  her,  she  wondered  ?  Was 
it  because  the  sight  of  a  uniform  had  brought  back 
recollections,  or  was  it  something  she  had  read  in  the 
wide  dark  eyes  as  they  looked  into  hers  when  he  had 
said  good-night? 

She  undressed  slowly,  and  shook  out  her  long  hair. 
The  window  was  open  to  the  soft  June  night,  and 
the  breeze  lifted  the  golden  strands  and  blew  them 
against  her  flushed  cheeks.  She  switched  off  the  light 
and  stood  for  awhile  looking  out  over  the  sleeping 
city.  She  looked  almost  like  the  Saint  Genevieve  of 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  in  her  straight  nightrobe,  her 
hair  parted  and  drawn  down  into  a  long  yellow  braid, 
her  bare  feet  white  against  the  polished  floor.  The 
flashing  smile  that  lit  up  the  dark  face  shone  across 
her  mental  vision.  Would  she  see  this  man  again, 
she  wondered?  Did  she  want  to?  She  pulled  the 
curtains  across  the  window  and  crept  into  bed.  For 
a  long  while  she  lay  staring  up  through  the  velvety 
darkness. 

She  did  want  to  see  him  again.  She  lived  over  the 
moment  when  their  eyes  had  met,  the  blue  ones  and 
the  brown  ones  that  seemed  to  strike  fire.  Could  this 
face  too,  with  its  clean  lines  and  flashing  smile,  grow 
distorted  and  evil  as  she  had  co<ln  the  othfr? 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  111 

At  the  thought,  she  buried  her  face  fiercely  in  the 
pillow. 

"No,"  she  whispered  to  herself  in  the  darkness. 
"No,  I'll  never  see  him  again !  I  never  want  to !  Men 
are  all  alike,  I  hate  them !"  and  she  began  to  tremble 
with  cold  under  the  covers  on  this  warm  June  night. 

After  awhile,  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep  and 
dreamed  that  she  was  singing  again  at  the  "Two 
Eagles"  and  that  Captain  de  la  Motte  came  and  took 
her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  an  open  window, 
through  which  she  could  see  a  broad,  beautiful  land 
scape.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a  great  storm  had  just 
passed,  the  last  clouds  disappearing  in  the  distance, 
and  across  the  arch  of  the  heavens  stretched  a  won 
derful  rainbow.  Birds  were  singing,  and  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  perfume  of  flowers.  Just  as  she  was 
about  to  start  out  with  him  into  the  sunlight,  Von 
Pfaffen  came  between  them  and  she  awoke,  weeping 
bitterly. 

But  de  la  Motte  called  again  and  yet  again,  and 
soon  it  became  a  matter  of  course  that  Marie  and  the 
two  girls  should  meet  him  on  their  walks  in  the  Bois 
and  walk  home  together. 

The  young  soldier's  interest  was  perhaps  accentu 
ated  by  her  very  reticence,  the  difficulty  he  found  in 
drawing  her  out,  in  making  her  believe  in  his  friend 
ship.  Without  letting  him  quite  see  her  purpose,  she 
set  herself  the  task  of  making  him  prove  himself  in 
every  way,  and  though  her  suspicious  eyes  were 
always  seeking  for  a  flaw,  he  withstood  all  her  tests. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  many  happy  days. 
Madame,  with  the  love  of  match-making,  which  lies 


112  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

in  every  Latin  heart,  smiled  and  dimpled  at  young 
de  la  Motte  every  time  he  came,  and  managed  to  see 
that  he  and  Marie  were  thrown  together  as  much  as 
possible. 

Gradually,  her  shyness  wore  off  and  she  found  her 
self  talking  of  the  years  spent  at  the  convent,  of  her 
days  with  her  father.  But  she  always  stopped  short 
with  his  death,  and  de  la  Motte  attributed  the  silences 
that  followed,  to  her  bereavement.  He  would  change 
the  subject  to  some  trivial  matter  and  soon  the  smiles 
would  come  back  again. 

He  was  like  a  big,  carefree  boy  with  the  three  girls, 
and  as  the  days  wore  on,  Marie  began  to  realize  that 
her  happiness  lay  where  he  was. 

The  thought  frightened  her.  She  tried  to  reason 
with  herself,  to  bring  her  experience  to  her  aid.  How 
could  he,  the  sort  of  man  who  could  win  any  girl, 
the  son  of  General  de  la  Motte,  ever  think  of  her,  the 
penniless  little  cousin  in  his  friend's  household? 

But  after  awhile,  she  hushed  the  voice  of  reason, 
and  let  herself  drift  along  in  a  dream  that  had  as 
its  awakening  the  days  between  his  visits. 

One  afternoon  de  la  Motte  called  early.  He  had 
not  been  expected,  and  Madame  Le  Grand  and  the 
two  girls  had  gone  for  a  shopping  tour,  leaving  Marie 
at  home  alone. 

When  the  maid  showed  him  into  the  salon  where 
she  was,  the  girl  rose  hastily  from  beside  the  little 
work-table  where  she  had  been  stringing  beads  for 
the  purse  Madame  was  knitting.  Her  cheeks  flushed 
prettily  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Cousin   Praline    and   the   girls   will  be    disap- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  113 

pointed,"  she  said,  "but  they  will  be  home  shortly. 
You  will  sit  down  awhile?" 

He  laughed  as  he  drew  a  chair  up  beside  her. 

"Do  you  know,  Mademoiselle,  I  suppose  it's  rude 
to  say,  but  I  can't  feel  badly  that  they  are  not  here. 
I'm  glad  I  find  you  alone !" 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  that  startled, 
almost  frightened  her.  The  smile  faded  from  her 
lips.  She  dropped  her  eyes  over  her  work  and  sat 
silent. 

He  watched  her  uneasily.  What  a  difficult  little 
person  she  was.  The  smile  that  had  greeted  him  was 
so  encouraging  that  he  had  almost  uttered  the  words 
that  were  now  nearly  always  at  his  tongue's  end,  yet 
here  she  was,  frozen  stiff  again,  safely  ensconced  be 
hind  the  bars  she  so  seldom  let  down.  Her  very  diffi 
dence  spurred  him  to  discover  what  lay  back  of  those 
clear,  wide  eyes,  those  eyes  that  were  so  like  a  child's, 
and  yet  a  child  that  had  been  badly  frightened  at 
something. 

He  leaned  forward  and  covered  her  hand  with  his. 

"Please  put  down  your  work,  Mademoiselle." 

She  drew  her  hand  away  and  hastily  rose  to  her 
feet.  Her  fears  had  been  well  grounded.  He  was 
like  the  rest. 

"I'm  sorry,  Monsieur,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "I'm 
sorry — I — I  thought  we  were  such  good  friends.  I'm 
sorry  to  have  it  spoiled !" 

He  rose  too,  puzzled. 

"Mademoiselle,  what  have  I  done  to  make  you 
think  I  want  to  spoil  something  for  which  I  have  been 
striving  ?" 


114  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

She  raised  her  eyes  that  wanted  so  to  believe  in 
some  one.  The  look  she  saw  in  his,  made  her  flush 
with  a  new,  ecstatic  wonder.  If  she  could  only 
believe  it. 

He  seemed  to  read  her  doubts,  to  understand  the 
fear  that  tore  at  her  heart. 

"Marie,"  he  said  softly,  "love  to  me  is  a  very  won 
derful  thing,  so  wonderful  and  precious  that  I  am 
old-fashioned  enough  to  think  it  must  only  be  offered 
where  one  wishes  to  give  one's  life.  Some  day,  per 
haps,  you  will  let  me  speak  to  you  again  of  this," 
and  stooping,  he  touched  his  lips  for  a  moment  to  her 
fingers  and  left  the  room. 

Marie  sat  for  a  long  while  after  he  had  gone,  with 
her  hands  idle  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  filled  with  a  vision 
of  what  might  be.  Confidence,  faith,  where  she  so 
longed  to  bestow  it !  If  it  only  could  be  true !  She 
began  to  realize  that  here  was  a  different  love  than 
had  been  offered  her  before,  a  love  that  had  respect 
for  its  foundation. 

When  her  cousins  returned,  they  found  her  sitting 
in  the  gloaming,  dreaming,  with  so  little  of  her  work 
done,  that  they  laughed  and  called  her  "lazy  one," 
and  said  she  must  come  with  them  and  see  all  their 
purchases,  and  with  her  mind  singing  over  the  hope 
of  that  "some  day"  that  he  had  spoken  of,  she  went 
with  Fleurette  and  Sidonie. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FOE  some  time  after  this,  de  la  Motte  did  not  come 
to  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo.  Cousin  Jules  reported 
that  he  was  busy  with  his  military  duties.  There  was 
some  activity  at  the  caserne.  Soldiers  were  drilling 
for  a  review,  but  he  sent  his  kindest  greetings  and 
promised  to  be  with  them  again  as  soon  as  it  might 
be  possible.  But  he  was  never  absent  from  Marie's 
thoughts,  and  she  dreamed  the  glad  dreams  that 
youth  knows  when  love  has  come. 

When  he  came  again,  it  was  to  ask  Marie  to  meet 
his  family.  They  were  in  Paris  for  a  few  weeks,  while 
his  sister,  who  was  to  be  married  shortly,  bought  some 
of  her  trousseau. 

"I  want  them  to  meet  you,"  he  said.  "I  want  you 
to  know  my  sister  Paulette;  I  know  you  will  be 
friends." 

Marie  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  Could  she  dare  to 
hope  that  what  she  saw  there  was  true?  She  was 
almost  afraid  to  dream  it,  afraid  to  let  him  tell  her 
po.  He  was  so  different  from  any  she  had  known, 
with  his  flashing  smile,  his  clear  eyes  that  looked  so 
steadily  into  hers.  She  wanted,  above  all  things,  to 
believe  in  him. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Monsieur  and  Madame  Le 
Grand  were  to  take  her  to  call  on  his  family. 

The  girls  helped  her  with  her  simple  toilet.  Her 
hat  must  be  set  just  at  the  right  angle,  her  gloves, 

115 


116  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

her  shoes,  must  all  be  perfect.  They  were  as  excited 
as  she  was  over  the  prospective  visit.  Madame  also 
was  dreaming  dreams. 

"You  will  like  the  General,"  she  said.  "He  is  a 
very  gallant  old  soldier.  He  will  not  frighten  you, 
cousin ;  and  Madame  and  Paulette  are  charming." 

"Everybody  will  love  you,  little  Sainte  Marie," 
said  Fleurette,  "everybody  must" ;  and  Sidonie  added, 
"But,  of  course,  how  can  it  be  otherwise?" 

The  de  la  Motte  family  were  staying  at  a  hotel  on 
the  Place  Vendome,  one  of  those  hotels  whose  unpre 
tentious  exterior  gives  no  indication  of  the  refined 
comfort  to  be  had  within.  It  was  the  hotel  at  which 
the  family  always  lived  when  in  Paris,  and  its  prox 
imity  to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  made  it  particularly  con 
venient  now  for  the  purchasing  of  Paillette's 
trousseau. 

She  was  to  be  married  to  a  young  Belgian  officer., 
Gerome  had  explained,  Maurice  le  Cerf.  They  had 
grown  up  together,  and  both  families  had  been  look 
ing  forward  to  this  event  for  years.  Maurice's  home 
was  not  far  from  the  Chateau  de  la  Motte,  which 
was  situated  close  to  the  border,  and  the  young  lovers, 
were  seldom  separated.  Their  marriage  was  to  take 
place  some  time  in  August. 

Gerome  opened  the  door  of  his  father's  suite  for 
them. 

Back  of  him  smiled  the  General,  who  held  out  a 
cordial  hand  to  Marie  as  they  entered.  He  was  a 
tall,  well  built  man  of  about  sixty,  his  gray  hair  was 
brushed  back  from  his  forehead,  a  heavy  grayish 
mustache  hid  his  mouth,  and  over  his  keen  blue  eyes 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  117 

hung  thick,  grizzled  eyebrows,  one  of  which  was  lifted 
a  trifle,  giving  him  a  kindly,  quizzical  expression. 
There  was  a  strong  resemblance  between  father  and 
son,  but  the  elder's  features  were  more  massive.  He 
was  taller,  heavier,  more  powerfully  built. 

As  the  visitors  came  into  the  room,  a  lady  rose 
from  a  chair  by  the  window.  She  was  tall  and  beau 
tifully  poised,  and  the  simple  lines  of  her  dark  dress 
set  off  her  figure.  Her  hair  was  almost  white  and 
rolled  back  from  her  face  in  a  smartly  dressed  coif 
fure.  Her  wide,  dark  eyes  were  so  like  Gerome's  that 
Marie  did  not  need  his  words  to  confirm  the  fact  that 
she  was  his  mother. 

She  greeted  her  with  cordial  grace,  her  sweet  in 
formality,  immediately  putting  the  girl  at  her  ease. 

There  was  some  little  conversation  between  Madame 
Le  Grand  and  the  hostess,  concerning  various  mutual 
acquaintances  and  things  that  interested  them,  and 
then  Gerome's  mother  turned  again  to  Marie. 

They  talked  awhile  of  many  things,  of  the  charm 
of  Vienna,  of  how  she  liked  Paris;  and  when  they 
found  she  knew  no  more  of  France,  they  promised  her 
that  she  should  see  all  of  their  beautiful  country. 
Monsieur  Le  Grand  told  some  anecdotes  of  her  father, 
and  his  wife  smiled  fondly  at  Marie  as  she  spoke  of 
the  days  with  them  since  she  had  come  to  Paris. 

Presently  a  very  pretty  girl  came  in  from  another 
room.  She  was,  perhaps  a  year  younger  than  Marie, 
slender,  with  dark  hair  which  waved  softly  back 
from  a  smooth,  white  forehead.  From  under  her 
straight  black  brows  her  eyes  looked  out  with  just  a 
hint  of  superciliousness.  If  there  could  be  any  criti- 


118  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

cism  of  the  lovely  face,  it  was  perhaps,  that  the  fea 
tures  were  too  regular,  for  beauty  is  accentuated  by 
some  slight  defect  that  enhances  it  by  comparison. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  street  in  a  smart,  dark 
brown  walking  suit  and  a  wide-brimmed  sailor  hat. 
Her  slender  feet  and  trim  ankles  were  cased  in  bronze 
shoes  and  silk  stockings. 

Gerome  rose  to  greet  her. 

"Paulette,"  he  said,  "this  is  Mademoiselle  Helmar." 

Paulette  smiled  her  brother's  flashing  smile. 

"Gerome  has  told  us  much  about  you,"  she  said. 
"We  have  been  looking  forward  to  your  visit,"  and 
after  shaking  hands  with  the  Le  Grands,  she  crossed 
the  room  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  mother's  chair. 
Her  words  had  been  gracious,  her  manner  all  that  it 
should  be,  but  there  was  a  subtle  something  that  took 
Marie's  ease  from  her  and  brought  back  her  nervous 
ness.  The  almost  too  classic  face  held  a  vague  suspi 
cion  of  her,  a  vague  challenge.  It  was  as  though  she 
were  saying,  "Who  are  you?  What  is  it  in  you  that 
has  captured  my  brother?  I  resent  it.  I'm  not  sure 
whether  you  are  good  enough  for  him.  I  am  not  sure 
anyone  is !" 

The  family  were  to  be  in  Paris  another  week,  it 
seemed,  and  the  General  made  plans  for  them  to  go 
to  the  theatre  together,  "so  that  we  may  grow  to 
know  one  another,"  he  explained. 

Marie  blushed  as  she  thanked  him,  and  it  was  de 
cided  that  early  in  the  week  she  should  dine  with 
them  and  they  would  go  to  the  Opera  Comique,  or 
perhaps  the  Theatre  Franchise  afterward. 

Monsieur  Le  Grand,  in  his  deep  bass  voice,  rum- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  119 

bled  out  plans  for  them  to  come  to  the  Avenue  Victor 
Hugo;  Madame  smiled  and  dimpled  as  she  seconded 
his  invitation,  and  presently  they  rose  to  go. 

"We  will  see  you  very  soon,  I  hope,"  she  smiled,  as 
she  made  her  adieux,  and  turning  to  Paulette,  she 
wished  her  again  much  happiness. 

Marie  smiled  timidly  as  she  bade  Madame  de  la 
Motte  good-bye. 

"It  has  made  me  happy  to  meet  you,"  she  said. 

Madame  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Gerome's  friends  are  ours,"  she  said  kindly. 

The  Le  Grands  pleaded  another  engagement,  so 
Gerome  was  to  see  Marie  home. 

It  was  a  beautiful  June  day  and  the  Paris  streets 
through  which  they  drove  sparkled  in  the  sunshine. 
The  motor  was  well  on  its  way  along  the  Champs 
Elysees  before  either  of  them  spoke. 

Marie  was  nervously  silent,  and  he,  too,  sat  staring 
straight  ahead  of  him.  Every  now  and  then  she  stole 
a  glance  at  the  brown  profile  beside  her.  She  was 
conscious  of  an  almost  irresistible  longing  to  put  out 
her  hand  and  touch  him.  She  grasped  her  parasol 
handle  tightly  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

At  last  Gerome  turned  to  her. 

"You  like  my  family  ?"  he  asked. 

"Your  mother  is  wonderful,"  she  said.  scYou  have 
her  eyes." 

"I  resemble  the  General  more,  they  tell  me.  He  is 
fond  of  saying  how  much  I  am  like  he  was  at  my 
age." 

"You  are  like  him,"  she  answered,  as  though  re- 
vie"wing  his  qualities.  "He  is  very  splendid  !*' 


120  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"And  Paulette?"  asked  Gerome. 

Marie's  eyes  dropped. 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  she  said  non-committally. 
She  was  still  feeling  the  girl's  appraising  eyes,  the 
subtle  something  that  had  put  a  wall  between  them. 

Gerome  laughed. 

"I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  understand  her,"  he 
said.  "She  is  very  badly  spoiled,  and  just  now  noth 
ing  or  no  one  exists  outside  of  Maurice  and  her  trous 
seau.  You  will  love  Paulette  when  you  know  her 
better." 

"I  am  certain  I  will,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him. 

Gerome  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  them,  Marie,"  he  said  seriously, 
his  voice  shaking  a  little.  "It  means  much  to  me." 

He  was  silent  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  the  girl's 
heart  beat  happily.  He  cared  for  her.  There  was 
no  doubting  the  look  in  his  eyes.  Love,  real  love,  the 
kind  she  had  dreamed  of,  had  prayed  for,  was  coming 
into  her  life.  For  a  moment  she  grew  cold  with  the 
fear  that  something  might  come  to  take  it  away. 
She  remembered  the  dream  she  had  had  the  night  she 
had  first  met  him,  and  the  thought  that  perhaps  some 
shadow  of  her  life  in  Vienna  might  come  between 
them,  sent  the  blood  from  her  cheeks  and  lips  and  left 
her  still  and  white. 

The  torturing  thought  came  to  her  again  as  it  had 
so  many  times  since  she  began  to  realize  the  serious 
ness  of  his  intentions.  Could  she  in  honor  accept 
this  happiness  if  it  were  offered?  Had  she  the  right 
to  accept  it  from  any  man? 

When  they  reached  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  her 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  121 

cousins  had  not  yet  arrived  and  the  two  girls  were 
out  with  Julie  for  their  walk. 

They  sat  in  the  little  salon,  talking  for  a  moment 
or  so,  and  then  Gerome  rose. 

"I  must  go  on  now,"  he  said.  "I  shall  see  you  to 
morrow." 

Marie  nodded,  not  trusting  herself  to  speak.  She 
knew  her  voice  would  shake  and  tremble  as  she  was 
trembling. 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  Gerome  took  it,  and  held 
it  tight.  For  a  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  then  suddenly,  he  drew  her  to  him,  crushing 
her  in  his  arms. 

"Marie,"  he  whispered,  "I  love  you !  I  want  you ! 
Say  yes  to  me !  Say  yes !"  and  in  the  dizzy  ecstacy 
that  his  nearness  brought  her,  her  resolutions,  her 
fears  melted  away.  Her  heart  throbbing  wildly,  she 
could  only  cling  close  to  him,  murmuring,  "Yes." 

Then  followed  long  silences,  broken  by  murmured 
vows,  happy  anticipation,  hopes,  plans,  promises. 
The  old,  old  story  ever  new. 

When  he  was  gone  she  shut  herself  in  her  room. 
She  was  glad  the  family  were  out.  She  didn't  want 
to  see  anyone  just  now.  She  didn't  want  to  have  to 
answer  their  eager  questions  as  to  how  she  liked 
Gerome's  people,  and  how  they  had  liked  her.  She 
didn't  want  to  discuss  things  with  her  cousins  yet. 
Her  happiness  was  too  great,  too  wonderful.  It 
seemed  a  sacred  thing. 

Now  she  knew  that  though  there  was  grief,  sorrow, 
pain  in  the  world,  cruelty  and  villiany,  still,  there  was 
real  love,  love  and  the  sacrifices  love  will  make.  It 


122  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

came  over  her  with  a  great  surge  of  joy,  that  after 
all,  everything  she  had  always  dreamed  of,  hoped  for, 
was  in  the  world,  just  as  bitter  experience  had  taught 
her  that  other  things  existed  as  well. 

There  was  love  and  all  that  is  part  of  perfect, 
reciprocated  affection.  With  a  great  wonder,  she 
asked  herself,  did  Fate  really  mean  to  be  kind?  Had 
she  escaped  the  consequences  of  her  inexperience? 

She  looked  at  her  face  in  the  mirror.  Was  this 
the  same  girl,  she  wondered,  who  had  come  to  Paris 
so  short  a  while  ago,  eyes  red  from  weeping,  and  a 
heart  bitterly  sore  with  the  world?  The  face  that 
shone  back  from  the  mirror,  was  radiant  with  the 
mysterious  glow  that  comes  to  a  woman  when  she 
loves  and  is  loved.  She  looked  at  the  deep  blue  of 
her  eyes,  sparkling  with  happiness.  She  looked  at 
her  parted  red  lips,  that  could  still  feel  his  kisses, 
and  then,  suddenly,  the  light  went  out  of  her  eyes, 
the  smile  died,  and  she  threw  herself  face  down  on 
her  bed.  What  would  he  do  if  he  knew,  she  won 
dered.  She  couldn't  lose  him,  she  couldn't  give  him 
up.  Her  imagination  showed  her  the  lovelight  killed 
in  his  eyes  and  a  look  of  loathing  taking  its  place. 

"I  couldn't  bear  it,"  she  sobbed  dryly.  "I  won't 
bear  it !"  She  could  still  feel  his  heart  beating  against 
her  breast,  his  breath  warm  on  her  cheek. 

"Dear  God  in  heaven,"  she  prayed,  "don't  take  him 
from  me !  I  love  him !  I  love  him !  Keep  him  from 
ever  knowing !  Dear  God  in  Heaven !" 

She  jumped  to  her  feet  and  brushed  her  hair  out 
of  her  eyes. 

"He'll  never  kntfw!"  she  said  between  her  teeth. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  123 

"He  can't  ever  find  out!  I  won't  give  him  up!  I 
won't !" 

That  life  was  a  chapter  to  be  closed  forever.  She 
had  been  swept  into  it  not  against  her  will,  but  be 
cause  she  had  had  no  will  in  the  matter,  no  power  of 
choice  or  discrimination. 

Those  months  at  the  cafe,  and  with  Von  Pfaffen, 
shuddered  across  her  memory  like  some  horrible 
nightmare. 

She  would  sponge  them  from  her  very  mind,  erase 
them  from  her  imagination. 

Squaring  her  shoulders,  and  holding  her  chin  high, 
Marie  looked  at  her  image  again  in  the  mirror,  and 
as  she  saw  the  color  coming  back  to  her  cheeks,  the 
light  in  her  eyes,  she  knew  that  she  had  chosen  the 
path  that  she  was  to  follow,  and  that  whatever  came, 
she  would  fight  to  hold  this  love  that  had  come  into 
her  life,  to  put  herself  in  tune  with  him,  to  make  her 
self  worthy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  General  called  with  Gerome  the  next  day  and 
the  two  were  closeted  for  some  time  with  Monsieur 
Le  Grand. 

Marie  had  seen  them  arrive  from  her  window.  Ner 
vously,  she  walked  up  and  down  her  room,  waiting  to 
be  sent  for. 

When  at  last  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  came  in  for 
her,  their  faces  were  glowing  with  excitement. 

"They  want  you  at  once  in  papa's  study,"  cried 
Fleurette. 

"But  you  shan't  go  until  you  tell  us  why,"  an 
nounced  Sidonie.  Marie  was  flushed  and  eager. 

"Let  me  by,  you  bad  children,"  she  laughed,  try 
ing  to  push  them  aside.  "How  should  I  know  why 
they  want  me?" 

Fleurette  threw  her  arms  about  her  neck. 

"Don't  be  angry,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  were  only 
teasing,  of  course  we'll  let  you  go,"  and  the  way 
clear,  she  went  into  the  little  salon. 

Gerome  came  forward  to  greet  her  as  she  stood 
shyly  at  the  door,  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  was  such 
a  happy  one  that  Marie  felt  as  though  she  were  lifted 
into  Heaven. 

"My  little  wife  that  is  to  be,"  he  whispered,  and 
led  her  into  the  room. 

Madame  was  busy  arranging  on  a  small  table  the 

tray   of  wine   and   cakes   which   the   maid   had   just 

124 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  125 

brought  in.  Monsieur  Le  Grand  took  both  her  hands 
in  his. 

"Well,"  he  laughed  in  his  big  rumbling  voice, 
"what  is  this  I  hear  about  your  leaving  us?" 

The  General  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

"She  is  a  rather  nice  little  daughter  for  an  old 
man  to  have,  isn't  she  now?"  and  he  smiled 
quizzically. 

Marie's  cup  of  happiness  was  too  full.  Was  she 
the  little  orphan,  who  only  a  few  months  ago  had 
stood  irresolutely  on  the  corner  of  a  street  in  Vienna, 
wondering  where  she  was  going,  what  was  to  become 
of  her?  To  have  all  this  love,  this  joy,  showered  on 
her,  was  too  wonderful,  too  much.  She  hid  her  face 
on  Gerome's  convenient  shoulder. 

It  seemed  that  Monsieur  Le  Grand's  talk  with  the 
General  had  been  more  than  satisfactory  and  all  that 
now  remained,  was  to  arrange  for  the  marriage  to 
take  place  as  soon  as  possible. 

Gerome  insisted  on  an  early  date.  His  suggestion 
was  that  now  since  the  family  were  all  in  Paris,  why 
not  have  the  wedding  immediately. 

Marie  felt  curiously  like  a  detached  witness  of  all 
this,  not  at  all  as  though  she  were  one  of  the  princi 
pals.  It  seemed  so  like  a  dream,  that  she  let  them 
discuss  arrangements,  and  sat  happily  silent,  her 
hand  held  tightly  In  Gerome's. 

It  was  finally  decided  that  as  the  de  la  Motte  family 
were  to  go  back  to  the  country  the  third  week  in 
June,  Gerome  and  Marie  should  be  married  a  few 
days  before  they  left.  That  would  give  Cousin  Fran- 
cine  at  least  ten  days  to  get  the  little  bride  ready. 


126  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

While  her  new  relatives  and  her  cousins  were  drink 
ing  each  other's  health  and  wishing  each  other  many 
felicitations  and  a  better  acquaintance;  while  the 
General  was  toasting  Cousin  Fra^ine's  pretty  face 
and  the  two  tall  girls;  while  Monsieur  was  beaming 
on  everybody  collectively,  Gerome  drew  Marie  into 
the  window  seat. 

"Are  you  happy,  dear?"  he  asked  as  they  settled 
themselves. 

Marie  could  not  answer,  her  heart  was  too  full. 
She  looked  up  into  his  glowing  face  and  smiled. 

Gerome,  unlike  most  Frenchmen  of  his  class,  had 
taken  the  world  seriously.  He  had  always  looked 
forward  to  the  day  when  he  should  meet  the  One 
Woman.  His  life  had  been  well-ordered  and  clean, 
so  that  when  he  came  to  her,  he  should  be  able  to  lay 
the  pages  of  that  life  before  her  and  say,  "Dearest, 
I  have  lived  for  you  and  for  the  day  of  our  meeting." 
His  fellow  officers  had  twitted  and  laughed  at  him 
for  a  purist.  They  said  that  he  had  been  born  into 
the  wrong  world,  no  woman  was  worth  it.  But 
Gerome  had  gone  his  way,  taking  their  chaffing.  He 
had  smiled  into  the  eyes  of  many  pretty  women, 
flirted  lightly  with  others,  but  never  let  his  life  be 
touched.  "I'm  really  a  henpecked  bachelor,"  he  used 
to  tell  his  companions,  laughing.  "I  haven't  yet 
met  the  girl  whom  I  am  going  to  marry,  but  she  keeps 
me  from  a  lot  of  mischief  into  which  I  might  other 
wise  fall." 

When  he  had  met  Marie,  her  blond  loveliness,  her 
simplicity  and  shyness,  had  won  him  at  once,  and  he 
had  told  himself  that  first  day,  that  here  was  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  127 

woman  for  whom  he  had  been  waiting,  for  whom  he 
had  kept  himself  clean  and  fine. 

When  he  had  spoken  to  his  family  of  her,  the  Gen 
eral,  with  his  characteristic  clear-sightedness,  had 
realized  that  Romance  had  found  his  son,  and  that 
whatever  he  or  Madame  might  say  against  one  of 
whom  they  knew  almost  nothing,  would  only  serve  to 
bring  unhappiness  to  them  all.  They  were  a  singu 
larly  united  family  and  the  thought  of  disagreement 
coming  among  them,  was  impossible  to  realize. 

The  General  and  his  wife  had  discussed  the  matter 
quietly  by  themselves  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
not  to  give  an  opinion  for  or  against,  till  they  had 
seen  this  girl  who  had  so  suddenly  come  into  Gerome's 
life. 

Paulette,  however,  had  demurred.  Her  brother 
was  so  much  to  her,  she  hated  to  think  of  giving  him 
up  to  another  woman,  dreaded  a  stranger  being 
brought  into  their  midst.  Her  fiance  had  been 
raised  with  them  all.  She  could  never  remember  a 
time  when  Maurice  had  not  been  near.  But  this  was 
different,  and  a  girl  from  a  strange  country,  too, 
Paulette  demurred. 

The  General  and  Madame  de  la  Motte  had  asked 
Gerome  to  bring  Marie  to  see  them,  and  her  sweet 
ness  and  simplicity  had  won  their  hearts.  Besides, 
the  General  knew  and  respected  Monsieur  Le  Grand, 
and  he  stood  sponsor  for  the  little  stranger. 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  a  great  scholar,"  he  had 
told  the  General,  "the  husband  of  a  cousin  of  mine. 
The  girl  has  been  raised  in  a  convent.  She  is  an 
orphan.  Her  father  lost  his  fortune,  and  she  tried 


128  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

to  support  herself  giving  piano  lessons  and  teaching 
French  in  Vienna.  She  could  not  succeed,  so  she 
came  to  us.  That  is  her  life,"  and  he  added  that 
Madame  was  planning  to  give  the  girl  her  trousseau 
as  a  wedding  gift. 

Things  had  shaped  themselves  beautifully,  but  as 
Gerome  sat  with  Marie's  small  hand  in  his  on  the  win 
dow  seat,  while  his  father  and  her  cousins  toasted  one 
another,  he  knew  that  even  if  things  had  developed 
differently,  he  had  come  to  his  journey's  end.  He 
had  found  the  One  Woman. 

When  they  had  left,  and  the  family  had  excitedly 
talked  over  everything,  and  Marie  had  been  affec 
tionately  kissed,  she  had  begged  them  to  excuse  her, 
and  had  hurried  away  to  dream  of  her  happiness  in 
the  quiet  of  her  room.  Her  cousins'  promises  of  the 
gifts  they  were  to  give  her  had  stirred  her  deeply. 

These  good  people,  how  wonderful  they  were  to 
her,  and  she — she  was  going  to  Gerome  empty 
handed.  She  drew  out  from  under  the  neat  pile  of 
clothing  in  the  dresser  drawer,  the  purse  she  had 
brought  from  Vienna.  She  shook  out  the  few  hellers 
and  kronen  and  the  two  thin  bank  notes  which  she 
had  never  touched  since  her  arrival.  That  was  all 
the  dowry  she  could  bring  her  husband.  She  stared 
down  at  the  little  heap  of  Austrian  money  lying  on 
the  white  cover  of  her  bureau. 

Suddenly,  she  seemed  to  see  Von  Pfaffen's  nervous 
fingers  stirring  among  the  bank  notes,  and  the  reali 
zation  of  what  that  money  meant,  rushed  over  her  in 
a  wave  of  shame.  She  picked  up  the  thin  pieces  of 
paper  and  tore  them  frantically  into  shreds.  Then 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  129 

she  gathered  the  bits  of  other  money  together  with 
the  scraps  and  threw  them  all  as  far  as  she  could  out 
of  her  window.  The  coins  tinkled  along  the  sidewalk, 
wheeling  in  half  circles  on  their  edges  before  they 
settled  in  the  gutter.  There  was  scarcely  any  breeze 
stirring,  and  the  thin  scraps  of  paper  zig-zagged 
slowly  in  the  air.  She  watched  them  scatter  along 
the  pavement,  her  hands  held  out,  her  fingers  spread 
apart.  She  had  thrown  from  her  the  last  of  her  life 
in  Vienna. 

The  days  that  followed  were  spent  in  a  whirl. 
There  were  clothes  to  buy,  there  was  the  little  apart 
ment  to  see  in  the  Avenue  d'Antin,  which  Gerome  had 
selected,  there  was  so  much  to  do,  that  it  left  Marie 
dizzy. 

Madame  Le  Grand  was  in  her  element.  She  hur 
ried  the  girl  from  one  shop  to  another,  planned  and 
fussed  and  rushed  about  from  morning  till  night,  the 
two  girls  at  her  heels,  eager  and  flushed,  and  filled 
with  vague  dreams  of  the  time  when  all  this  excitement 
should  be  for  them. 

The  day  before  the  wedding,  she  came  to  Marie  as 
she  was  dressing  for  the  dinner  her  cousins  were  giv 
ing  for  the  two  families,  and  sat  down  for  a  few 
minutes  to  chat. 

"It's  wonderful  that  this  has  come  to  you,  Marie," 
she  said.  "You  know  we  are  sending  the  two  girls  to 
the  convent  next  fall,  and  your  Cousin  Jules  and  I 
had  thought  of  a  winter  on  the  Riviera.  We  haven't 
had  a  vacation  together  for  so  long.  There  would 
be  nothing  for  you  to  do  then,  would  there?" 

Marie  was  arranging  her  hair  as  she  answered. 


130  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  Cousin  Fran- 
9me,  I  can  never  thank  you  enough." 

Madame  made  a  little  denying  gesture. 

"Don't  speak  of  that,  dear  child,"  she  said  rising. 
"Now  I  must  go,  my  guests  will  soon  be  here.  You 
will  go  to  confession  to-night,  of  course." 

Marie  looked  up  at  her  startled.  Since  her  arrival 
here  in  Paris,  she  had  gone  regularly  with  the  family 
to  mass,  but  as  yet  she  had  not  been  to  confession. 
She  had  kept  away,  promising  herself  and  the  Cure, 
Pere  Gaspard,  who  was  the  family  friend  and  advisor, 
that  soon  she  would  go  to  him.  Once,  when  the  Cure 
had  reminded  her  of  her  duty,  she  had  turned  so 
white,  that  he  had  patted  her  hand  reassuringly. 

"There,  there,  Mademoiselle,"  he  had  told  her, 
"you  can  wait  till  you  know  me  better.  I'm  sure  the 
sins  on  your  soul  are  not  such  that  we  need  worry 
over  them." 

When  Madame  had  left  the  room,  Marie  sat  star 
ing  into  her  mirror.  She  saw  nothing  of  the  confu 
sion  of  the  simple  bridal  finery  about  her,  nothing  of 
her  own  image  reflected  in  the  glass.  Her  only 
thought  was  that  now  she  must  go  to  confession. 
What  should  she  say? 

When  she  went  at  last  into  the  salon,  the  family 
and  their  guests  were  all  assembled,  Madame  de  la 
Motte,  looking  very  regal  in  her  shimmering  gray 
satin  with  a  string  of  handsome  pearls  about  her 
throat,  kissed  her  cordially  as  the  girl  came  to  her 
side. 

In  Paulette's  bright  eyes  was  still  the  vague  sus 
picion  that  Marie  had  read  there  that  first  day,  but 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  131 

she  held  out  her  hand  and  flashed  her  brilliant  smile. 

Marie,  of  course,  knew  no  one  in  Paris  and  it  had 
been  decided  to  have  the  marriage  as  simple  as  possi 
ble,  so  there  were  only  the  two  families,  Pere  Gaspard 
and  Maurice  le  Cerf,  Paulette's  fiance,  who  had  come 
to  see  the  corbeille  de  manage  and  to  the  dinner 
which  the  Le  Grands  were  giving  the  little  cousin  as 
a  farewell. 

Madame  Le  Grand  smiled  and  dimpled  at  her 
guests,  radiant  in  a  new  shining  silk,  and  the  two 
girls,  their  slim  legs  in  black  silk  stockings,  their 
white  frocks  encircled  with  huge  blue  sashes,  stood 
stiffly  behind  their  mother,  looking  at  Marie  with  a 
new  interest. 

Maurice  le  Cerf,  never  far  from  the  side  of  his 
pretty  fiancee,  welcomed  Marie  into  their  midst  with 
a  boyish  cordiality  that  won  her  heart  immediately. 
He  was  a  slender,  brown-skinned  young  officer,  his 
long,  delicate  features  giving  him  something  of  a 
Spanish  cast.  A  small  mustache  shaded  a  rather 
full  red  mouth,  and  the  light  gray  eyes  shone  out 
curiously  from  his  dark  face. 

Marie  was  happy,  deliriously  happy.  Her  terror 
of  confession  was  forgotten.  She  was  content  to  sit 
with  her  hand  in  Gerome's,  her  eyes  on  his.  Just  to 
know  that  he  was  near,  was  comfort,  to  realize  that 
he  was  hers,  left  her  dizzy  and  breathless. 

Both  families  had  been  generous  with  the  gifts 
they  had  given  the  young  people,  and  the  wonders  of 
the  corbeille  de  marlage  having  been  duly  investi 
gated  and  exclaimed  over,  they  all  sat  down  to  dine 
in  a  happy,  joyful  frame  of  mind.  Even  Fleurette 


132  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

and  Sidonie  forgot  their  shyness  and  began  to  giggle 
over  whispered  remarks,  and  to  nudge  each  other 
surreptitiously. 

The  General,  his  quizzical  eyebrow  more  quizzi 
cally  raised  than  ever,  at  his  place  next  his  jovial 
host,  was  full  of  entertaining  anecdotes  about  Mo 
rocco,  Tunis  and  the  savages  along  the  Congo,  where 
he  had  served  as  a  young  man. 

Monsieur  Le  Grand  laughed  his  rumbling  bass 
chuckle  in  appreciation,  and  capped  the  Congo  stories 
with  bits  of  curious  doings  in  the  city  offices. 

Cousin  Fra^ine  smiled  and  dimpled  and  gave 
whispered  orders  to  the  two  hired  waiters  who  were 
assisting  Julie,  the  maid. 

Madame  de  la  Motte  patted  Marie's  hand  as  she 
now  and  then  added  a  laughing  word  to  the  General's 
reminiscences. 

Paulette  and  Maurice  whispered  together  at  their 
side  of  the  table. 

Marie  let  her  eyes  wander  away  from  the  beloved 
brown  ones  at  her  side.  She  was  conscious  of  a  feel 
ing  of  well-being,  a  sense  of  protection,  until  her  eyes 
came  to  rest  on  the  black  coat  of  the  Cure.  It  came 
over  her  again  in  a  terrifying  flash,  that  Pere  Gas- 
pard  was  the  symbol  of  what  might  stand  between 
her  and  all  this  happiness.  She  lost  her  sense  of  what 
was  going  on  about  the  table,  as  she  stared  at  the 
old  man's  wrinkled  face  with  its  high  nose  and  thin, 
white  hair.  It  was  a  kindly,  sympathetic  face,  but 
to  Marie,  the  deep  lines  about  the  mouth,  looked 
sinister,  the  furrows  between  the  eyes,  stern  and  unre- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  133 

lenting.    She  drew  her  breath  sharply  and  tightened 
her  fingers  on  Gerome's  hand. 

She  couldn't  go  to  confession,  she  couldn't  tell 
about  Vienna,  about  the  cafe  and  Von  Pfaffen  and 
all  the  rest,  she  couldn't.  Then  she  remembered,  how 
during  that  long  journey,  she  had  murmured  over 
and  over,  "When  I  reach  Paris,  I  shall  be  born  again, 
I  shall  be  born  again!  Nothing  of  this  has  really 
ever  happened!" 

Pere  Gaspard  smiled  at  her  across  the  table.  With 
an  effort  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"I  have  been  born  again,"  she  told  herself  desper 
ately.  "I  have  no  sins  to  confess !" 

******* 

The  next  morning  early,  she  was  awakened  by 
Fleurette's  kiss. 

"Lazy  little  Sainte  Marie,"  she  laughed.  "This 
is  your  wedding  day.  Sidonie  and  I  are  going  to 
communion  with  you  now,  so  hurry." 

Marie  sprang  out  of  bed  and  threw  open  her 
curtains. 

"What  a  wonderful  wedding  day,"  she  laughed 
joyously,  "the  whole  world  is  happy  with  me." 

When  she  was  ready  in  her  simple  blue  walking 
suit  and  hat,  the  two  girls,  both  dressed  exactly  alike, 
clung  one  to  each  arm,  as  they  started  light-heartedly 
toward  the  church. 

"Marie,  just  think,  by  noon  to-day  you  will  be 
Madame,"  said  Sidonie  wonderingly,  "aren't  you 
frightened?" 

"I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  be,  only  I  should  be  wild 
with  excitement,"  said  Fleurette. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Marie  isn't  even  that,  are  you?"  and  Sidonie 
gently  pinched  her  arm  to  get  her  attention,  for  the 
girl's  thoughts  had  been  far  away  from  these  two 
little  inquisitive  chatterboxes,  tripping  by  her  side, 
through  the  lovely  June  sunshine  along  the  Champs 
Elysees. 

"Not  even  excited,"  she  whispered,  coming  back  to 
her  surroundings,  "only  very,  very  happy !" 

Communion  over  and  the  tears  brushed  away  that 
the  words  of  the  kindly  old  priest  had  brought  to 
her  eyes,  they  hurried  back  to  the  Avenue  Victor 
Hugo  to  make  ready  for  the  wedding. 

Marie  was  lovely  in  the  white  frock  that  Madame 
had  taken  such  pains  in  selecting  for  her.  Her  golden 
hair  shone  round  her  face  like  a  saint's  halo,  and  the 
filmy  masses  of  the  white  veil,  floated  mistily  about 
her.  Gerome  had  given  her  a  small  bar  of  diamonds 
which  she  wore  among  the  laces  at  her  throat,  and 
her  eyes,  deep  blue,  unclouded  and  happy,  shone  like 
stars.  Marie  was  lovely. 

As  they  drove  to  the  Mairie  in  the  flower-decorated 
carriage,  Gerome  leaned  toward  her,  the  pride  of 
possession  lighting  up  his  radiant  face. 

"I  know  why  they  call  you  little  Sainte  Marie," 
he  said  softly;  "you  look  as  though  you  had  just 
stepped  down  from  heaven."  He  lifted  her  fingers  to 
his  lips,  "and  you  arc  mine,  all  mine !" 

The  ceremony  at  the  Mairie  was  short  and  quickly 
over  and  they  went  directly  to  the  M#delaine.  As 
she  followed  the  huge  Swiss  in  his  scarlet  coat  and 
great  black  hat,  down  the  dim  aisle,  her  heart  seemed 
to  stop  beating.  She  was  unconscious  of  everything, 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  135 

excepting  the  gleam  of  light  on  the  tip  of  his  staff, 
and  the  soft  crunching  of  his  great  black  patent 
leather  boots  as  he  plodded  on  ahead  of  them. 
Everything  was  a  confusion  of  dim  shadows,  of  tall 
candles  flickering  and  flashing,  of  masses  of  flowers 
and  swaying  wreathes  of  incense. 

Almost  in  a  dream,  she  knelt  at  Gerome's  side,  ex- 
altedly  she  made  her  responses  and  kissed  the  Host. 
The  low,  deep  tones  of  the  organ  thrilled  through  the 
dim  aisles,  mounted  in  an  ecstatic  burst  of  melody, 
up,  up  into  the  very  heights  of  the  great  church. 

The  huge  Swiss  swung  his  staff  and  started  majes 
tically  back  toward  the  vestry  room.  Gerome  took 
her  hand,  and  still  in  a  dream,  she  followed.  It 
wasn't  until  they  were  once  more  out  in  the  sunlight 
standing  on  the  broad  steps  of  the  Madelaine,  as 
they  waited  for  their  white  cockaded  coachman  to 
answer  the  signal  of  the  dignified  Swiss,  that  Marie 
woke  suddenly  to  a  realization  of  what  had  taken 
place. 

The  June  sunshine  touched  her  lovingly  with  its 
golden  rays,  and  sent  little  blue  and  crimson  lights 
dancing  in  the  diamonds  of  the  pin  at  her  throat  as 
it  trembled  with  the  throbbing  of  her  heart.  She 
looked  up  at  the  tall  figure  at  her  side  in  its  resplend 
ent  uniform,  the  quiet  strength  of  the  handsome  pro 
file,  the  confident  lift  of  the  broad  shoulders.  Her 
heart  was  full  of  a  great  thanksgiving,  an  adoring 
love  beyond  words. 

Gerome,  her  husband! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  short  honeymoon  was  spent  at  Interlaken, 
which  Gerome  had  chosen  because  of  the  quiet  as  well 
as  the  beauty.  He  wanted  Marie  to  himself. 

As  he  threw  the  long  windows  wide,  the  morning 
after  their  arrival,  he  uttered  an  involuntary  excla 
mation  at  the  scene  of  beauty  spread  before  him. 
They  had  arrived  late  the  night  before  and  the  full 
wonder  of  an  Alpine  sunrise  shone  out  before  their 
eyes. 

Marie  came  to  his  side. 

"How  marvelous!"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  wide 
with  the  splendor  of  the  scene. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders,  and  together 
they  stepped  out  onto  the  tiny  balcony  outside  the 
window.  Below  them,  the  busy  little  Aa  purled  and 
gurgled  on  its  way  to  the  lake.  Some  sleek,  spotted 
cows  ambled  lazily  across  the  bridge,  their  bells  tink 
ling  musically  through  the  still  morning  air.  A  small, 
red-cheeked  boy  prodded  them  idly  with  a  long, 
crooked  stick. 

Above  them,  the  mighty  peaks  flung  themselves  high 
into  the  clear  blue  sky,  like  huge  giants  supplicating 
the  morning  sun.  Here  and  there  along  their  sides 
the  mists  filled  tiny  valleys,  here  and  there  lay  deep 
impenetrable  shadows,  but  the  snow  on  their  summits 
glittered  and  sparkled  with  the  pink  of  the  Alpine 

glow. 

136 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  137 

To  Marie,  as  she  stood  with  her  husband's  arm 
about  her,  came  a  swift,  half  conscious  premonition 
that  her  own  life  would  be  something  like  this  vast 
panorama  spread  before  her ;  that  she,  too,  would  be 
called  upon  to  climb  through  the  mist-filled  valleys, 
to  fight  her  way  through  dark,  impenetrable  shadows, 
up,  up  into  the  glow  of  the  shining  heights. 

They  had  their  breakfast  out  on  the  tiny  balcony, 
a  delicious  meal  of  crisp,  crescent  rolls  and  little  hol 
low  swirls  of  sweet  butter,  clear  golden  honey  and 
steaming,  fragrant  coffee. 

The  buxom  maid  who  served  it,  wore  a  black  velvet 
bodice  with  silver  buttons,  and  the  crisp  white  folds 
of  her  ample  apron  matched  the  snow  on  the  summit 
of  the  Jungfrau.  Her  cheeks  were  so  red  that  the 
blood  seemed  bursting  from  them,  and  her  bright  eyes 
sparkled  back  the  happiness  in  the  eyes  of  the  pair 
she  was  serving. 

Marie  had  tied  her  hair  back,  schoolgirl  fashion, 
with  a  huge  bow,  and  after  the  red-cheeked  maid  had 
left  them,  she  came  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  Gerome's 
chair. 

"What  would  I  have  done  if  you  had  never  found 
me,"  she  said  musingly,  as  she  smoothed  his  thick 
hair.  "Out  of  the  darkness,  we  met!  You  led  me 
into  a  world  of  light  and  love.  How  wonderful  it  is !" 
Her  eyes  were  large  and  mysterious  as  they  gazed 
over  the  far  spaces  of  the  valley. 

"But  we  did  meet,  little  Sainte  Marie,  and  we're 
never  going  to  part,  are  we?" 

She  tightened  her  arm  about  his  neck. 

"Nothing  or  no  one  shall  ever  take  you  from  me," 


138  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

she  said,  and  she  spoke  so  earnestly  that  Gerome 
turned  in  his  chair  and  held  her  off  at  arm's  length. 

"How  serious  you  are,"  he  smiled,  "as  if  that  could 
be  possible." 

"Nothing  must  separate  us,  I'd — I'd  die  with 
out  you,"  she  said,  and  jumping  to  her  feet,  she 
ran  into  the  room. 

Marie  found  amusement  and  interest  in  everything 
and  everybody  about  her.  She  and  Gerome  were  like 
two  children  out  on  a  holiday,  and  played  wonderful 
games  of  imagining  the  life  stories  of  their  fellow 
guests  at  the  quiet  little  hotel. 

Their  first  meal  at  the  long  table  d'hote  was  one 
of  absorbing  interest  to  her.  The  maids  who  served 
were  each  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  red-cheeked 
girl  who  had  brought  them  their  breakfast,  black 
velvet  bodice,  silver  buttons,  white  apron  and  all. 

Across  from  them,  sat  a  very  dignified  German 
family.  The  Baron  Von  Dieskow,  a  tall,  good-look 
ing  old  man  who  looked  at  Marie  with  a  pair  of  very 
sparkling  eyes  set  in  a  handsome,  merry  face,  burnt 
quite  red,  had  an  explosive  way  of  saying  "NO !"  to 
everything  one  said,  as  though  it  was  the  most  won 
derful  thing  in  the  world.  The  Baroness — he  was  her 
third  husband,  she  told  Marie — was  a  pretty  little 
English  woman.  She  brought  forward  a  young  lady 
daughter,  very  homely  and  dowdyish  and  distinctly 
German,  although  she  spoke  English  to  Gerome,  who 
liked  to  air  his  knowledge  of  that  language,  with  a 
pronounced  Picadilly  accent.  There  were  also  two 
young  children  who  curtsied  and  kissed  Marie's 
hand  when  their  mother  presented  them. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  139 

The  Baron,  it  seemed,  had  met  Gerome's  father 
once  in  Paris,  and  there  were  many  polite  inquiries  as 
to  the  General's  health,  and  soon  he  and  Gerome  were 
deep  in  the  discussion  of  mountain  climbing  and 
hunting. 

"I  am  not  a  very  good  shot,"  Marie  heard  the 
Baron  say  with  his  merry  litle  eyes  sparkling,  "in 
fact,  I'm  not  at  all  fatal  to  the  birds.  Once,  how 
ever,  I  frightened  one,  but  that's  all,"  and  he  and 
Gerome  laughed  heartily. 

Next  Marie,  sat  a  faded  little  maiden  lady  from 
Yorkshire  with  a  Mona-Lisa  smile.  She  spoke  French 
very  slowly  and  very  badly,  and  hyphenated  all  her 
speeches  with  a  nervous  little  cough. 

There  was  also  a  sandy-haired,  pale-eyed  man  who 
made  Marie  think  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  tom-cat 
with  his  back  up.  He  was  a  major  something-or- 
other,  of  what  nationality  she  could  not  judge.  He 
smiled  at  her  in  a  horrid,  over-polite  way,  and  con 
fided  to  her  across  the  table  that  he  had  been  a  monk 
for  fourteen  years  in  the  great  Certosa  at  Florence. 

"I  thought  they  never  let  anyone  out,  who  once 
entered  there,"  ventured  Marie  timidly. 

"I'm  sure,  Madame,  they  would  never  let  you  out," 
he  said,  evidently  meaning  to  be  witty,  but  Marie 
colored  and  turned  away  to  watch  the  other  people 
about  the  long  table. 

Gerome's  discussion  with  the  Baron  was  still  going 
on  briskly,  and  she  had  ample  leisure  to  study  the 
curious  combinations  of  people  who  drift  together, 
"doing  Europe." 

At  the  end  of  the  table  sat  a  group  of  Americans, 


140  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

whose  joyous  good  humor  and  interest  in  everything 
attracted  her  attention.  She  did  not  understand  the 
laughing  sallies  which  flew  back  and  forth,  but  their 
merriment  was  so  infectious  that  she  smiled  with  them. 

In  Vienna  the  people  were  all  of  a  type.  It  was 
easy  for  her  to  recognize  a  foreigner.  In  Paris  also, 
the  people  resembled  one  another,  so  that  she  never 
had  any  difficulty  in  distinguishing  which  were 
French  and  which  were  of  an  alien  race,  but  no  two 
of  these  Americans  were  alike.  They  all  wore  some 
thing  of  the  same  sort  of  clothes,  but  there  the  re 
semblance  ended. 

Her  curious  eyes  widened  over  the  quantity  of 
jewelry  several  of  the  women  wore,  no  matter  what 
the  hour  of  the  day.  One  of  the  men  in  the  party,  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered  individual,  with  a  florid  face 
and  a  loud  laugh,  seemed  to  fill  all  his  conversation 
with  uncomplimentary  comparisons  of  the  comforts 
to  be  had  in  Europe  with  those  at  home.  His  fellow 
countrymen  seemed  to  heartily  agree  with  his  senti 
ments. 

One  of  the  women,  a  stout,  elderly  person,  who 
boasted  neither  style  nor  figure,  turned  to  Marie  with 
a  question.  Marie  shook  her  head,  blushing. 

"Pardon  me,  Madame,"  she  said,  "I  speak  no 
English." 

The  shout  of  laughter  from  the  other  Americans 
that  greeted  her  answer,  startled  her,  until,  to  her 
confusion,  she  discovered  that  the  elderly  woman  had 
addressed  her  in  what  she  fondly  imagined  was 
French. 

"Isn't  it  all  interesting?"  laughed  Marie,  as  cling- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  141 

ing  to  her  tall  husband's  arm,  they  started  for  a  walk 
about  the  countryside.  Everything  was  wonderful 
to  her,  and  Gerome,  watching  the  sun  sparkle  on  her 
hair  and  dance  in  her  bright  eyes  found  everything 
wonderful  too. 

They  explored  the  little  town,  wandered  about  in 
all  the  out-of-the-way  corners,  took  long  rambles  up 
the  mountain  sides,  and  in  the  lovely  June  evenings, 
sat  on  the  tiny  balcony,  her  cheek  against  his  shoul 
der,  and  watched  the  marvel  of  the  gold,  crimson  and 
purple  sunsets  among  the  giant  peaks  upflung 
against  the  gleaming  sky. 

It  was  a  perfect  week,  and  when  it  drew  to  a  close, 
and  they  were  leaving  for  Paris,  their  boxes  and  bags 
strapped  and  ready  in  the  hall  below,  in  charge  of  the 
green-aproned  porter,  Marie  ran  back  to  the  room 
in  which  she  had  been  so  happy.  She  looked  about 
hastily  and  lovingly  at  the  plain  hotel  furniture,  the 
wide,  marble-topped  dresser,  the  great  chair  on  the 
arm  of  which  she  had  sat  so  often  as  Gerome  smoked 
his  morning  cigar.  She  went  about  to  each  inanimate 
object  and  patted  it  lovingly. 

"Dear  room,"  she  whispered,  "where  I  have  been 
so  happy.  How  I  have  loved  each  one  of  all  these 
things !" 

The  long  windows  were  open,  and  she  stepped  out 
for  a  moment  onto  the  balcony.  She  looked  up  at 
the  glistening  Jungfrau.  Its  majesty,  its  whiteness 
filled  her  with  wonder. 

"Beautiful  mountain,"  she  said  softly.  "You  have 
looked  down  on  my  happiness,  I  shall  always  remem- 


142  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

her  you."  Then  she  turned  and  went  to  meet  Gerome 
where  he  was  waiting  in  the  hall. 

The  proprietor  of  the  hotel  was  at  the  door.  He 
was  a  queer,  thin  little  man  who  almost  wept  over 
their  hands  as  he  bade  them  good-bye. 

"Oh,  but  you  must  not  go,  really,  you  must  not  go ! 
I  am  desolated  to  see  you  go,"  he  said,  and  they  would 
probably  have  been  highly  flattered  had  they  not 
heard  him  say  the  same  thing  to  each  departing 
guest. 

Back  in  Paris,  the  Le  Grands,  Monsieur,  Madame 
and  the  two  tall  girls  were  at  the  little  apartment  in 
the  Avenue  d'Antin  to  greet  them.  They  had  en 
gaged  Suzanne,  Julie's  younger  sister,  to  come  and 
take  charge  of  the  small  household,  and  she  it  was 
who,  very  important  and  smiling  in  white  cap  and 
apron,  opened  the  door  to  the  young  couple  when 
they  arrived. 

The  trip  from  Geneva  had  been  a  long  dusty  one, 
and  Marie  was  tired,  but  her  joy  was  very  real  at 
seeing  these  kind  faces  again. 

Monsieur  nearly  shook  Gerome's  hand  off  and 
patted  him  vigorously  on  the  shoulder. 

"We're  glad  you're  both  back,"  he  rumbled.  "How 
well  you  look,  how  brown !  Even  Marie  has  been 
•Jkissed  by  the  sun." 

The  two  girls  must  show  Marie  everything.  She 
must  see  her  room  with  its  dainty  gray  furniture,  the 
delicate  lavender  hangings.  She  must  be  taken 
into  Gerome's  room  beyond.  Wasn't  it  charming? 
Didn't  she  like  the  way  it  was  arranged?  And  the 
white  and  gold  salon,  the  tiny  dining-room  with  its 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  143 

shining  silver  and  china.  The  kitchen,  wasn't  it  all 
wonderful  ? 

Marie  let  them  lead  her  from  room  to  room.  She 
couldn't  be  too  grateful,  too  happy.  Her  dream  was 
growing  in  loveliness. 

Suzanne  had  spread  a  dainty  meal  in  the  dining- 
room,  coffee,  little  cakes,  wine  and  some  cold  meat 
and  rolls,  and  as  they  sat  about  the  table,  they  all 
chattered  at  once. 

At  last  Monsieur  looked  at  his  watch. 

Dear  me,  how  late  it  was,  they  mustn't  keep  these 
tired  travelers  awake  any  longer. 

Suzanne,  all  smiles,  brought  Madame's  wrap  and 
the  girl's  coats. 

Monsieur,  his  walking-stick  under  one  arm  and 
Madame  under  the  other,  led  the  way  out,  after  kiss 
ing  Marie  resoundingly  on  both  cheeks  and  patting 
Gerome  on  the  shoulder  and  telling  him  what  a  lucky 
dog  he  was. 

Later,  Gerome  came  to  the  door  of  his  wife's  dainty 
gray  and  lavender  room.  She  was  letting  down  her 
heavy  golden  braids,  and  the  sleeves  of  her  negligee 
fell  away  from  her  white  arms,  as  she  raised  them  to 
her  hair.  She  looked  very  lovely  against  the  misty 
background  of  the  pretty  room,  and  his  eyes  swept 
her  fondly.  She  let  her  hair  fall  about  her  shoulders 
and  held  her  arms  out  to  him. 

"My  dearest,"  she  said,  "welcome,  welcome  home !" 

Gerome  held  her  against  his  breast. 

"My  little  Sainte  Marie,"  he  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  little  apartment  in  the  Avenue  d'Antin  shone 
like  a  carefully  kept  doll's  house.  Marie,  indulging 
her  fancy  for  dainty  clothes,  went  about  the  tiny 
rooms  dressed  in  the  prettiest  frocks  in  her  modest 
trousseau. 

There  were  visits  back  and  forth  between  her 
cousins  and  herself.  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  spent  long 
afternoons  with  her,  which  she  did  her  best  to  fill 
with  interest  and  enjoyment  for  them,  getting  out 
her  finest  china  for  the  afternoon  chocolate. 
They  never  ceased  to  wonder  at  her  new  dignity,  her 
staid  little  air  of  matronliness,  secretly  promising 
themselves  to  copy  it  when  they  should  be  married. 
When  the  time  came  for  Julie  to  call  for  them,  it 
always  seemed  too  soon,  and  Marie  used  to  stand  at 
her  window  and  wave  good-bye  to  them  till  they  had 
turned  the  corner. 

There  were  afternoons,  too,  when  she  would  take 
her  sewing  in  a  dainty  reticule  and  go  sedately  up  to 
the  apartment  in  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo.  Her  life 
was  full  and  overflowing.  Occasionally  Gerome  would 
bring  one  of  his  fellow-officers  and  his  wife  to  dine, 
and  sometimes  these  visits  were  returned. 

So  the  days  slipped  by,  peacefully,  calmly,  each 
filled  with  more  happiness  than  Marie  ever  dreamed 
life  could  hold. 

Then    into    this    peaceful,    contented    atmosphere, 

gradually,  imperceptibly,  out  of  the  nowhere,  vague 

144 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  145 

rumors  began  to  shape  themselves.  A  curious  palpi 
tating  unrest  made  itself  felt.  The  air  seemed 
charged  with  something  strange,  alive,  too  formless 
to  guess  at,  until  one  momentous  day,  that  was  to 
stand  forever  a  grim  milestone  in  the  world's  history. 
The  papers  were  full  of  a  terrible  happening.  The 
Austrian  Arckduke  had  been  assassinated,  a  shot 
had  been  fired  at  the  royal  carriage  in  a  far-away 
country.  Through  the  Paris  streets,  the  news  was 
cried. 

Intangible  menace  seemed  to  quiver  in  the  air,  fill 
ing  the  heart  with  vague  apprehensions  of  coming 
danger,  like  the  glare  of  a  great  conflagration  that 
is  seen  on  the  far  horizon. 

When  she  questioned  her  husband,  he  quieted  her 
fears,  though  his  own  brow  was  anxious.  This  was 
all  too  remote,  it  would  never  come  near  enough  to 
destroy. 

There  were  long  discussions  over  the  little  dining- 
table  when  the  Le  Grands  or  any  of  Gerome's  fellow 
officers  came  to  dine.  She  heard  her  own  Austria 
discussed  unfavorably.  She  wondered  that  Germany, 
whom  she  had  always  been  brought  up  to  look  upon 
as  the  Great  Protector,  should  here  be  viewed  as  the 
Arch-Conspirator,  the  Menacing  Tyrant,  blood- 
thirstily  eager  to  get  the  whole  world  in  the  grip  of 
its  mailed  fist. 

Looking  at  her  husband's  uniform,  it  was  brought 
home  to  her,  with  a  gasping  fear,  what  war  might 
mean  to  her.  But  Gerome,  seeing  the  look  in  her  eyes, 
would  reach  across  the  table  and  pat  her  hand,  and 
Monsieur  Le  Grand  would  rumble  his  assurances  that 


146  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

everything  would  surely  blow  over,  Germany  was  too 
wise  to  set  all  Europe  against  her. 

And  then  the  distant  conflagration  seemed  to  grow 

clearer.     It  was  as  though  the  bright  tongues  of 

flame  one  had  only  imagined,  became  suddenly  visible, 

.Reaping,   advancing,   devouring  everything  in   their 

course. 

The  formless  something  that  had  palpitated  in  the 
air,  took  shape,  and  began  to  spell  out  the  dread 
word,  "WAR." 

Every  hour  extras  came  out  with  news.  Every 
hour  it  was  denied. 

From  the  windows  of  the  little  apartment  in  the 
Avenue  d'Antin,  Marie,  with  a  white  face,  stood  at 
Gerome's  shoulder,  watching  the  bonfires  blazing 
where  the  police  were  burning  the  false  newspapers. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  shuddered.  "What 
can  it  all  mean?" 

Gerome  held  her  close. 

"It  may  mean  dreadful  things,  dear,  we  can  only 
wait  and  see,"  he  told  her. 

She  was  frightened  every  moment  he  was  away 
from  her,  though  the  Avenue  d'Antin  was  quiet  and 
peaceful.  On  her  way  to  visit  the  Le  Grands,  she  had 
seen  the  huge  placards  posted  along  the  Boulevards 
ordering  the  men  to  the  casernes. 

Gerome  was  with  his  regiment  nearly  always  now, 
and  she  was  much  alone.  Terror  of  what  it  might 
mean,  fear  of  she  knew  not  what,  enveloped  her. 
Here  and  there,  she  was  beginning  to  hear  the  street 
gamins  shout  out  their  hatred  of  the  Boches.  Once 
or  twice  they  had  called  the  name  at  her.  She  began 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  147 

to  fancy  she  could  even  see  in  the  kindly  faces  of  her 
cousins  a  certain  resentment  of  her  origin. 

Once  she  had  spoken  to  Fleurette  in  German,  and 
the  girl  had  raised  her  arm  as  though  warding  off 
a  blow. 

"Don't  speak  that  language,"  she  had  cried,  and 
Marie,  white-faced  and  wide-eyed,  had  looked  into 
their  serious  faces,  terror-stricken. 

It  couldn't  be  true !  There  couldn't  be  war !  To 
day,  when  mankind  had  grown  so  civilized,  so  filled 
with  a  sense  of  culture  as  she  had  heard  it  preached, 
it  couldn't  be  true !  The  Fatherland,  her  Austria, 
and  the  country  she  had  made  her  own?  It  was  too 
horrible,  too  terrible  to  think  of,  it  couldn't  be! 
These  weren't  the  days  of  the  dark  ages !  This  was 
the  enlightened  twentieth  century !  It  would  all  blow 
over !  It  must ! 

Gerome  soothed  her. 

"Marie,  dear,"  he  said  seriously,  "we  are  on  the 
edge  of  grave  things.  I  am  not  asking  you  to  give 
up  your  love  for  your  home  land,  but  your  allegiance 
belongs  here  now.  We  must  be  very  careful.  Every 
where  there  is  suspicion,  distrust  of  those  who  are  not 
of  our  own  blood.  We  must  be  very  cautious." 

Marie  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  frightened  at 
his  gravity. 

"Nothing  matters  but  you,"  she  said;  "nothing! 
There  won't  be  war !  There  can't  be !  Nothing  shall 
take  you  away  from  me !" 

Her  husband  shook  his  head  sadly  above  her  trem 
bling  shoulders. 

"Poor  little  one,"  he  sighed,  "there  shouldn't  be 


148  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

war!  But  there  may  be.  We  must  all  do  our  best, 
whatever  comes !" 

A  few  days  later,  came  a  wild  letter  from  Paulette. 

"What  is  Paris  saying?"  it  began.  "What  is 
Paris  doing?  Are  we  to  let  our  country  be  overrun? 
Our  beloved  France  insulted,  reviled?  Papa  is 
drilling  men  every  day  here  at  the  caserne,  and 
Maurice  is  at  home  in  Belgium  now,  but  he  will  come 
as  soon  as  France  needs  him  and  fight  for  the  flag 
he  loves  almost  as  well  as  his  own.  Maman,  too,  is 
busy  teaching  the  peasants  what  to  do  in  case  of  the 
worst.  Robert,  the  butler,  has  left  to  enlist  if  he  is 
needed,  and  we  have  a  new  man.  He  is  over  age,  they 
do  not  need  him  to  fight.  He  seems  very  good.  Even 
old  Nanine  is  going  to  send  her  three  sons.  Oh, 
Gerome,  my  brother,  I  wish  I  were  a  man,  so  that  I 
could  go  with  you  and  fight  for  France  if  she  needs 
me."  And  then  in  a  paragraph  all  by  itself  had  fol 
lowed  the  line:  "What  about  Marie — is  she  one 
of  us?" 

Marie  looked  up  startled  from  the  letter  Gerome 
had  handed  her. 

Paulette's  vague  distrust  was  voiced  now.  She  was 
an  alien,  an  enemy.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  cries  of 
the  street  gamins,  "yah!  Boche!"  To  her  there  was 
neither  France  nor  Germany,  peace  nor  war.  There 
was  only  Gerome,  her  husband.  He  was  her  world, 
her  all,  without  him,  Chaos!  It  was  all  a  horrible 
nightmare ;  such  things  did  not  happen  to-day.  Hus 
bands  would  not  leave  wives  who  loved  them,  to  fight 
husbands  of  other  wives  who  loved  them  equally  well. 
They  were  living  in  a  civilized  world,  a  world  that 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  149 

had  outlived  the  horrors  of  Barbarian  times.     Such 

things  did  not  happen ! 

******* 

And  then  the  sun  had  risen  on  the  fourth  of  August 
and  Belgium  lay  ravished  and  bleeding.  The  world 
rocked  and  groaned  and  was  torn  asunder.  The 
skies  thundered  to  the  echo  and  re-echo  of  devastating 
guns.  One  after  another,  the  nations  shook  off  the 
security  of  peace,  girded  themselves  in  the  red  garb 
of  war,  and  clashed  their  shields  one  on  the  other. 
Such  things  did  happen !  Civilization  had  perished ! 

France  was  called  to  arms.  France  was  responding 
with  all  the  joyousness,  the  brilliancy  with  which  she 
had  lived  in  peace.  France  was  lifting  her  proud 
head,  her  brave,  indomitable  spirit  against  that 
ever-advancing  gray  wall  of  deadliness,  that  gray 
wall  that  for  forty  years,  had  builded  and  prepared 
itself,  had  seen  that  no  chink  or  cranny  should  be 
left  in  it  when  The  Day  arrived.  And  against  this 
menace,  as  it  came  closer  and  closer,  France,  pitifully 
unprepared,  unexpectedly  called  from  her  playtime, 
was  taking  her  stand,  brave  and  full  of  the  courage 
of  the  right  that  knows  no  defeat. 

Everywhere  was  the  sound  of  the  Marseillaise,  the 
tramp  of  marching  feet.  Marie  went  with  the  Le 
Grands  to  watch  the  soldiers  pass  along  the  Champs 
Elysees.  The  music  of  the  band,  as  they  swung 
along,  the  fluttering  tri-color  that  caught  the  sun 
light,  the  eager  glow  of  patriotism  shining  from  each 
young  face  as  it  swept  by,  tightened  her  throat, 
misted  her  eyes,  and  she  found  herself  forgetting  that 


150  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

they  were  marching  against  her  own  people,  her  own 
Fatherland. 

She  .saw  herself  in  each  mother,  each  wife,  each 
sweetheart,  trudging  along  by  the  side  of  the  swing 
ing  troops.  She  felt  her  own  heart  bleed  with  these 
weeping  ones,  sending  their  best  to  fight  for  what, 
they  loved  more,  La  Patrie!  When  she  could  bear 
it  no  longer,  she  turned  with  streaming  eyes  and 
begged  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  to  take  her  home. 

Gerome  was  not  to  leave  yet,  he  had  other  work  to 
do ;  but  she  knew  the  day  was  not  far  distant  when  she 
would  be  sending  him  out  as  those  other  mothers, 
wives  and  sweethearts  were  doing. 

The  days  swept  on  into  those  terrible  ones,  when 
all  Paris  waited  anxiously  for  the  result  of  the  battles 
being  waged,  when  all  Paris  shuddered  with  the  ap 
proach  of  invading  feet.  Breathless  excitement,  wild 
joy  at  the  reports  of  victory,  of  the  foe  vanquished, 
ran  like  wild-fire  through  the  streets.  Then  followed 
those  other  rumors,  alarming,  terrible,  later  con 
firmed  by  official  reports.  The  Army  was  falling 
back!  The  Enemy  was  advancing! 

Gerome  was  with  her  less  and  less  now.  Marie 
kept  safely  hidden  in  her  little  apartment.  When  he 
came  home,  it  was  only  for  hurried,  brief  visits,  assur 
ances  that  he  would  see  to- her  safety,  but  that  his 
place  and  duty  was  with  his  regiment  which  had  been 
detailed  to  guard  the  city. 

One  morning,  Marie  was  awakened  by  an  ominous 
rumbling,  far  away,  deep-toned  and  menacing. 

Suzanne  ran  in  trembling  with  fright. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  151 

"Madame,"  she  gasped,  "it  is  the  guns!  Do  you 
not  hear  them?" 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the 
street.  People  ran  past,  terrified,  shouting  that  the 
city  would  be  taken.  She  saw  some  of  her  neighbors 
leave  their  houses,  with  only  such  of  their  belongings 
as  they  could  conveniently  carry  with  them. 

Toward  noon,  the  Le  Grands  came,  dressed  for 
traveling,  Madame's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and 
the  two  girls  whimpered  like  frightened  babies.  Mon 
sieur,  his  swarthy  face  yellowish  from  a  long  night 
of  vigil  and  the  knowledge  of  what  this  might  mean 
to  Paris,  bade  Marie  pack  a  few  things  and  come 
with  them. 

"We  are  leaving  for  Bordeaux,"  he  said.  "The 
Government  has  been  moved  there.  I  go  with  my 
office.  You  must  come  with  us,  Marie,  you  will  be 
safer  there." 

Marie  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  frightened. 

"How  can  I  go,"  she  said.  "Gerome  is  with  his 
regiment  at  the  Fortifications.  He  bade  me  stay 
here,  close,  indoors." 

Nothing  could  move  her,  and  weeping  bitterly,  the 
girls  clinging  about  her  neck,  and  Madame  kissing 
her  sadly,  they  said  good-bye. 

The  cloud  that  hung  over  everything  deepened, 
grew  blacker.  Terror,  horror,  and  a  dreadful  sor 
row  stalked  the  streets.  Defeat  was  approaching, 
defeat  by  a  foe  who  had  once  before  marched 
triumphantly  down  these  broad  avenues,  under  these 
stately  arches  built  as  the  memorial  of  a  proudly 
victorious  nation.  Men  and  women  stopped  each 


152  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

other  in  the  streets,  asking  if  this  were  going  to 
happen  again. 

Invasion,  and  all  that  it  meant,  hung  like  a  black 
pall  over  the  city  called  the  gayest,  the  happiest  in 
the  world,  covering,  enveloping  it  with  a  dreadful 
menace. 

A  tragic  figure,  Paris  waited  its  doom. 

Then,  suddenly,  across  the  blackness  came  a  mes 
sage.  The  enemy  was  halted.  Louder  roared  the 
guns,  but  now,  those  who  listened  seemed  to  hear  a 
note  of  triumph  in  their  fierce  song,  a  shout  that 
bade  them  look  up,  take  courage!  It  was  as  though 
the  spirit  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  had  again  raised  the 
Oriflamme. 

La  Patrie  lifted  her  head  once  more.  Bloody, 
wounded,  but  proudly  undaunted. 

Another  message !    The  enemy  was  retiring ! 

The  flower  of  France  was  sweeping  onward!  On 
ward  !  The  tide  had  turned ! 

Through  the  streets,  the  people  sang,  shouted,  wild 
with  joy. 

A  little  stream  had  marked  the  high  tide  of 
French  patriotism  and  valor;  a  little  stream  that 
would  live  in  the  memory  of  men  as  long  as  deeds 
like  these  should  be  written  or  sung;  a  little  stream 
which  would  be  forever  after  endeared  to  the  hearts 
and  the  minds  of  the  French  nation — the  Marne ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  ghastly  numbers,  the  wounded  began  pouring 
into  Paris,  a  sad  and  terrible  procession.  About  the 
railroad  stations,  crowds  were  gathered.  Mothers, 
sisters,  wives,  sweethearts  were  anxiously  scanning 
each  pitiful  burden  as  it  was  lifted  into  the  waiting 
ambulances,  their  hearts  torn  with  the  fear  that  this 
might  be  the  one  they  sought.  Strong  men  shook 
with  anguish  at  the  terrible  spectacle.  These  shat 
tered  wrecks,  who  had  gone  forth  in  the  pride  of 
their  youth  and  strength,  fought,  suffered,  died, 
so  that  Liberty  might  live,  their  wounds  mutely 
supplicating  those  who  were  to  take  their  places  not 
to  let  their  sacrifice  be  in  vain. 

As  the  stretchers  were  tenderly  borne  past  the 
waiting  people,  flowers  were  flung  on  the  gray  blan 
kets,  there  were  cheers  and  suppressed  sobs.  But 
mingling  with  their  tears  was  a  feeling  of  exultant 
pride  that  these  man  had  saved  their  beloved  country 
from  the  humiliation  of  defeat,  had  kept  hope  still 
alive  for  final  victory. 

The  women  of  France,  those  wonderful  women  who 
have  always  risen  to  every  crisis  in  their  -  country's 
history  flocked  to  give  their  services  to  her  now. 

With  Gerome's  permission,  Marie  offered  her  aid. 
Her  hands  were  deft  and  light,  and  her  heart  was  full 
of  pity  for  these  poor  boys  whom  she  had  seen  march 
away  so  bravely,  young,  strong,  and  flushed  with  the 
glow  of  eager  patriotism.  She  was  filled  with  com- 

153 


154  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

passion  for  these  people  of  whom  her  marriage  had 
made  her  one,  and  she  worked  early  and  late  among 
them.  The  fatigue  that  followed  acted  as  a  sort  of 
relief  against  the  terrible  anxiety  with  which  she 
was  filled  as  to  Gerome's  safety,  for  now  she  never 
knew  where  he  was  nor  into  what  danger  he  was 
going. 

As  an  assistant  nurse,  she  spent  most  of  her  time 
in  the  hospitals,  going  from  bed  to  bed,  comforting, 
consoling,  doing  as  much  as  her  limited  training  would 
permit.  Her  heart  bled  for  the  sightless  eyes  that 
had  so  recently  smiled  back  the  sunlight;  for  the 
useless  stumps  of  arms  that  could  never  again  hold 
those  they  loved ;  for  the  helpless  young  giants  shorn 
of  their  strength  forever.  As  she  went  in  and  out 
among  the  terrible  flotsam  tossed  back  by  the  tide 
of  battle,  a  wondering  admiration  for  the  people  of 
her  adoption  grew  in  her  heart,  for  torn  and  racked, 
bloody  and  shattered  as  they  were,  these  men  never 
complained,  there  was  never  a  word  of  discourage 
ment.  Stronger  than  their  suffering,  stronger  than 
the  thought  of  the  helpless  years  ahead,  was  the  joy 
born  of  the  knowledge  that  they  had  fought  well  and 
bravely  for  what  they  loved  most — La  Patrie ! 

There  was  more  than  enough  to  do  for  all  who  were 
willing  to  lend  their  aid.  Marie's  heart  was  wholly 
in  her  work,  she  toiled  unremittingly.  She  tried  to 
comfort  those  among  her  acquaintances  whose  dear 
ones  lay  out  beneath  the  little  wooden  crosses  near 
the  Marne. 

But  although  in  the  hospitals  her  gentle  hand  and 
sweet  face  brought  comfort  to  many  a  pain-racked 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  155 

poilu,  gradually  among  her  own  circle  she  seemed  to 
sense  a  widening  breach,  a  rift  in  the  love  and  com 
panionship  that  had  always  been  given  her. 

One  day  she  overheard  Fleurette  and  Sidonie  dis 
cussing  her. 

"Marie  is  different,"  said  the  older,  "she  isn't 
really  one  of  the  Boches,  she  belongs  to  us !" 

"She  was  born  there,"  the  other  had  responded 
doggedly,  "and  I  heard  papa  say  yesterday,  'Once  a 
German,  always  a  German !' 5: 

She  went  into  their  room  immediately,  and  care 
fully  explained  to  them  that  all  her  love  and 
allegiance  was  with  them ;  that  she  had  given  up  her 
own  country  with  her  marriage  to  Gerome,  and  was 
now  as  loyally  French  as  they. 

But  the  tales  of  brutality,  of  wanton  destruction 
that  were  reported  in  Paris,  the  cruelty  of  these  peo 
ple  from  whom  she  had  sprung,  were  inconceivable  to 
her.  She  couldn't  believe  them.  Once  she  voiced 
these  doubts  to  Gerome. 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked  deep 
into  her  eyes. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  these  things  are 
true.  It  will  be  best  for  you  to  believe  them,  and  to 
forget  that  the  blood  of  our  enemies  flows  in  your 
veins !" 

Once  on  her  way  home,  she  had  seen  an  angry  mob 
stoning  the  windows  of  Herr  Pappenheim's  Rotis- 
serie.  Through  the  door  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
round  face  of  the  proprietor.  It  was  a  pasty-white, 
and  there  was  a  swollen  lump  over  one  eye  where  a 
stone  had  struck  him.  The  windows  were  smashed 


156  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

and  yelling  boys  were  pillaging  among  the  appetizing 
stores. 

She  heard  the  derisive  shouts  of  "Boches — yah,  sale 
Boche,"  as  the  gendarmes  dispersed  the  crowd. 

Good  Herr  Pappenheim,  who  had  so  often  winked 
at  a  generous  overweight  for  some  needy  customer, 
and  in  the  warm  evenings  had  always  sat  happily  on 
the  sidewalk  before  his  shop,  his  fat  German  wife  at 
his  side,  and  all  the  children  in  the  neighborhood 
climbing  over  his  broad,  good-humored  shoulders ! 
And  now,  with  this  new  feeling  against  his  race,  these 
same  children  were  stoning  his  windows ! 

The  return  of  the  government  to  Paris  brought 
the  Le  Grands  with  it.  Julie  came  with  a  note  to  the 
Avenue  d'Antin. 

"Dear  Marie,"  it  said,  "we  are  home  again.  We 
shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  when  you  can  spare  the 
time !" 

"Spare  the  time,"  she  looked  up  startled.  The 
formal  phrasing  worried  her.  Were  they  too,  think 
ing  of  her  as  The  Enemy  ? 

"They  don't  trust  me,"  she  complained  to  Gerome 
on  one  of  his  fleeting  visits  to  her.  "They  look  at 
me  as  though  I  am  some  strange  creature  that  doesn't 
belong  here.  They — they  whisper  about  me.  Yes 
terday,  at  the  Red  Cross  rooms,  I  heard  Madame 
Dupin  say  I  was  an  alien,  and — and  once  or  twice 
they  spoke  about — about  spies!" 

Gerome,  weary  with  his  long  vigil  and  happy  to  be 
with  her  again,  drew  her  close  in  his  arms. 

"Dearest,"  he  murmured,  "I  know  it  must  be  very 
hard  for  you.  This  sort  of  thing  is  one  of  the  worst 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  157 

phases  of  this  war.  But  you  are  one  of  us  now !  It 
is  because  you  are  a  part  of  my  beloved  France,  that 
She  means  more  to  me  than  ever." 

Marie  nestled  closer,  her  cheek  against  his  brown 
one. 

"I  am  a  part  of  France,  dear,  now  and  forever !" 

She  felt  her  words  deeply,  with  a  sense  of  elation 
in  the  knowledge  that  she  did  belong  to  this  wonder 
ful  country  whose  children  could  sing  their  way  hap 
pily  through  the  sunlit  days  of  peace,  and  yet  when 
the  sky  grew  overcast  with  war  clouds  that  obscured 
the  sun  and  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  with  destruc 
tion,  be  ready  to  lay  aside  their  playthings,  turn 
from  their  laughter  and  ease,  and  girding  on  their 
armor,  stand  staunch  and  firm,  fighting  to  the  last 
drop  of  their  heart's  blood. 

In  the  faces  about  her,  she  read  the  exaltation  that 
must  have  lighted  the  countenance  of  the  Maid  of 
Orleans,  the  determination  that  the  proud  head  of 
their  beloved  country  should  never  be  bowed  beneath 
a  strange  yoke. 

She  forgot  Austria,  forgot  Germany,  forgot  her 
alien  blood,  and  gave  her  waking  hours  gladly,  un 
reservedly  to  be  as  useful  as  she  could. 

After  the  supply  of  trained  nurses  increased  she 
was  set  to  making  surgical  dressings,  and,  as  she 
rolled  the  interminable  yards  of  gauze,  the  room 
would  sometimes  blur  through  her  tears  of  sympathy 
at  the  sad  stories  she  heard.  But  as  more  and  more 
of  the  terribly  wounded  kept  pouring  into  the  city, 
the  hatred  and  resentment  against  the  enemy  who 
was  causing  all  this  suffering  grew,  and  she  began 


158  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

to  see  a  difference  in  the  faces  about  her.  Women 
who  had  been  kind  and  friendly  before,  who  had 
politely  ignored  her  foreign  origin,  now  began  openly 
to  show  their  disfavor. 

Sometimes  when  she  entered  the  room  filled  with 
women  busy  preparing  supplies  for  the  hospitals, 
there  would  be  a  sudden  cessation  of  conversation,  as 
though  she  had  been  the  subject  they  were  discussing. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  suspicion  and  distrust  became 
more  open,  friends  of  the  Le  Grands  who  knew  her 
origin,  cut  her  as  they  passed  her  in  the  street,  and 
even  her  cousins  asked  her  less  and  less  to  the  apart 
ment  in  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo. 

Marie's  sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  aversion 
about  her.  She  suffered  keenly  from  the  suspicion 
directed  against  her.  So  at  last  it  was  decided  that 
she  would  be  safer  at  the  Chateau  de  la  Motte  than 
here  in  Paris  where  she  must  of  necessity  be  so  much 
alone.  Tearfully,  she  closed  the  little  apartment  and 
prepared  to  go  to  her  husband's  people. 


CHAPTER  XX 

To  Paulette,  the  fourth  of  August  meant  the  sud 
den  ending  of  all  her  happy  anticipations,  for,  shortly 
after  the  declaration  of  war,  Maurice  had  been  taken 
prisoner. 

When  the  news  came  to  the  chateau,  she  refused  to 
believe  it ;  such  a  thing  was  impossible !  Maurice  was 
to  fare  forth  and  fight  for  France,  he  was  to  fly  her 
colors  from  his  helmet  as  did  the  knights  of  old !  But 
he  had  been  obliged  to  fight  the  invaders  of  his  own 
country.  The  Germans  had  come!  The  Germans 
had  conquered !  Maurice  was  a  prisoner ! 

Paulette  had  never  known  in  all  her  short  life  what 
denial  meant.  To  her  parents,  her  word  and  whim 
was  law,  and  her  brother  idolized  her.  Her  every  wish 
had  been  gratified.  She  insisted  now  that  they  de 
mand  her  lover's  freedom.  She  could  not  be  made 
to  understand  the  futility  of  even  asking.  It  was 
impossible  that  what  she  wanted  so  ardently,  should 
be  kept  from  her. 

There  came  a  letter,  meagre,  bloodless,  sternly 
emasculated  by  the  Teuton  censor,  but  it  contained 
one  word  that  sent  the  blood  from  her  lips — 
"Wounded."  Other  letters  followed,  but  they  were 
pitifully  empty,  so  lacking  in  everything  that  she 
wanted  to  know,  that  they  were  more  a  source  of 
grief  than  comfort.  After  awhil&,  even  these  stopped. 

Old  Nanine,  the  Breton  woman,  who  had  nursed 
159 


160  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Paulette  and  her  brother,  shook  her  head  over  the 
shadows  under  her  eyes,  the  listless  droop  of  her 
mouth,  the  hollows  in  the  delicate  oval  of  her  cheeks. 

The  girl  was  filled  with  a  flame  of  deep,  bitter  rage 
that  consumed  her  day  and  night.  The  tears  that 
came  to  the  relief  of  other  women,  were  denied  her. 
Hate,  that  most  terrible  of  the  children  of  War,  was 
born  in  her  breast. 

"Now  dearie,"  crooned  Nanine,  "don't  take  it  like 
that !  It  can't  be  long  before  the  French  will  have 
driven  the  Boches  away,  and  the  young  Monsieur  will 
be  back  again.  Come,  calm  yourself!  What  a  pic 
ture  you  will  be  for  him  to  see  when  he  comes,  if  you 
go  on  so." 

But  Paulette  refused  to  be  comforted.  The  sunni- 
ness  of  her  nature  changed  into  a  brooding  sullen- 
ness.  She  grew  to  hate  the  very  name  of  the  Ger 
mans,  and  little  by  little  her  resentment  fastened  itself 
on  Marie,  her  Austrian  sister-in-law. 

In  the  midst  of  her  grief  and  despair,  one  day 
one  of  her  school  friends,  a  girl  of  her  own  age,  came 
to  the  chateau.  She  wore  the  white  coif  of  the 
trained  nurse  with  its  little  red  cross  of  mercy  bound 
about  her  forehead.  She  was  filled  with  wonderful 
tales  of  bravery  and  suffering,  and  in  a  flash  Paulette 
knew  that  this  was  the  work  which  would  fill  her 
time  and  her  heart  while  waiting  for  Maurice,  and 
perhaps  enable  her  to  help  him.  She  began  to  dream 
that  it  might  be  her  hands  that  would  nurse  him  back 
to  health.  She  must  make  those  hands  as  skillful  as 
possible.  She  threw  herself  into  the  necessary  studies 
with  feverish  energy. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  161 

Though  the  General  had  passed  the  retiring  age, 
he  had  been  recalled  to  active  service  and  was  absent 
most  of  the  time.  When  he  did  come  home,  it  was 
only  for  hurried  visits.  The  household  was  com 
pletely  changed.  One  by  one,  those  of  the  men 
servants  who  were  young  enough,  had  been  called  to 
the  colors  and  had  marched  away.  Old  Nanine  had 
seen  her  two  eldest  sons  go,  big,  strapping  fellows  of 
whom  she  was  justly  proud.  In  company  with  so 
many  other  French  mothers,  she  had  said  good-bye  to 
them  for  the  last  time.  Jean  had  fallen  in  one  of  the 
first  skirmishes  and  Pierre  had  received  his  death 
wound  a  few  weeks  later.  Now  the  youngest,  Jacques, 
had  just  left  for  the  front.  Her  heart  was  very 
heavy,  but  she  stifled  her  own  sorrow  to  comfort  the 
grieving  Paulette. 

Madame  de  la  Motte  busied  herself  from  early 
morning  to  night,  gathering  supplies  and  looking 
after  the  families  of  those  who  had  gone  with  the 
army. 

Of  the  men  about  the  chateau,  none  were  left  ex 
cepting  Joseph,  the  gardener,  stooping  under  his 
sixty  heavy  years,  and  the  new  butler. 

This  man  was  tall  and  thin,  perhaps  forty-five,  his 
hair  graying  at  the  temples,  his  dark,  watchful  eyes 
looking  out  steadily  from  under  heavy  brows.  He 
was  so  well  spoken  of  in  the  letters  of  recommenda 
tion  which  he  presented,  that  Madame  de  la  Motte 
considered  herself  fortunate  to  have  found  him. 

Antoine — this  was  his  name — and  old  Nanine,  did 
not  agree  very  well.  The  Breton  peasant  distrusted 
and  disliked  every  one  whose  ancestry  she  did  not 


162  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

know.  Her  broad,  good-humored  face  would  set  in 
wooden  lines  when  she  and  Antoine  encountered  one 
another,  and  if  he  took  her  to  task  about  even  the 
smallest  thing,  she  would  shower  upon  him  a  volley  of 
sturdy  Breton  abuse.  So  usually  the  mild  and  quiet- 
spoken  Antoine  avoided  her  as  much  as  possible. 

Nanine  was  a  privileged  character.  She  came  and 
went  as  she  pleased  in  the  household,  although  her 
own  home  was  the  gate  house  just  at  the  entrance  to 
the  chateau  grounds.  Here  she  lived,  with  an  orphan 
girl  named  Angele,  who  was  to  marry  Jacques  when 
he  came  back  from  the  war. 

To  this  cottage  of  Nanine's,  Paulette  came  nearly 
every  day.  She  brought  her  letters  as  she  received 
them  from  Maurice,  and  the  two  girls  would  read 
them  over  and  over,  Angele  pointing  out  where  the 
censor  had  blotted  out  a  phrase,  Paulette,  through 
her  tears,  trying  to  supply  it.  And  Jacques'  letters 
were  gone  over  in  the  same  way.  When  the  news 
came  that  he,  too,  was  taken  prisoner  and  sent  to 
Belgium,  they  spent  much  of  their  time  hoping  that 
he  would  be  near  Maurice,  and  so  these  two  girls, 
one  at  each  end  of  the  social  scale,  bridged  the  gap 
that  separated  them  and  became  one  in  a  sorrow  com 
mon  to  both.  For  grief,  as  well  as  war,  knows  no 
caste. 

Old  Nanine,  her  wide  Breton  skirts  billowing  about 
her,  the  huge  wings  of  her  great  white  Breton  cap 
framing  her  broad  face,  trudged  back  and  forth  with 
Paulette  on  her  errands  among  the  peasants,  her 
heart  heavy  with  the  sorrow  that  comes  to  every 
mother  of  men,  when  men  are  waging  war.  She  would 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  163 

not  trust  the  girl  alone  on  her  own  familiar  roads, 
for  the  armies  were  nearing  their  quiet  village. 

So  the  days  went  by,  those  dreadful  August  days. 
Into  almost  every  household  about  them  came  the  sad 
news  that  some  loved  son  who  had  marched  away  so 
bravely,  would  never  return.  The  faces  of  the  women 
grew  wan  and  sad.  Joy  had  gone  from  the  world. 

And  now  the  air  began  to  tremble  with  an  ominous 
intonation,  a  sound  filled  with  grim  menace  that  con 
tinued  day  and  night,  a  harbinger  of  death  and  de 
struction,  of  devastation  and  terror.  A  sound  that 
was  never  to  cease  in  the  long  months  that  followed, 
sometimes  swelling  into  a  deep,  distant  roar,  some 
times  dying  away  in  a  dull,  intermittent  muttering. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  guns ! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ONE  day  there  came  a  letter  from  Gerome. 

"I  am  bringing  my  wife  to  stay  with  you,"  it  said. 
"Paris  is  growing  uncomfortable  for  her,  for  though 
she  is  as  loyal  as  I  am  myself,  there  are  those  who 
are  unkind  because  of  her  foreign  birth.  I  have  leave 
of  absence,  as  I  have  important  business  to  talk  over 
with  you,  my  father,  and  so  when  I  leave  for  the 
front,  I  shall  know  that  Marie  is  in  the  care  of  my 
mother  and  Paulette.  We  shall  motor  from  here 
sometime  on  Wednesday,  and  will  probably  be  with 
you  Thursday  evening.  Until  then —  '  and  the 
letter  ended  with  the  loving  messages  Gerome  always 
sent  his  parents,  for  he  was  a  devoted  son. 

The  General,  home  for  a  few  days,  read  the  letter 
aloud,  Madame  closed  her  eyes  quickly  for  a  moment, 
to  hide  the  sudden  mist  that  rose  to  them. 

"I  shall  see  my  boy  again,"  she  said  softly,  but 
Paulette,  her  face  sullen,  sat  staring  into  space. 

"It  seems  a  long  while  since  we  saw  him,"  said  the 
General,  folding  the  letter,  and  putting  it  back  into 
his  breast  pocket,  "and  he  must  be  off  again  almost 
at  once !" 

His  wife  sighed  wistfully. 

"We  must  be  grateful  that  we  are  to  see  even  this 
much  of  our  son.  How  many  of  our  friends  will  never 
see  theirs  again !" 

Paulette  swung  about  almost  fiercely. 
164 


MOTHERS  OF  .MEN  165 

"It  isn't  only  death  that  keeps  them  away !  Think 
of  the  prisoners !  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  a  man !  To  have 
to  sit  here  idly  and  wait,  is  maddening !" 

She  had  finished  her  training  and  was  daily  expect 
ing  her  commission  as  a  qualified  nurse.  The  inac 
tion,  the  waiting,  was  wearing  her  already  suffering 
nerves  to  a  wire  edge. 

Her  mother  cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  General  and 
reaching  over,  put  a  gentle  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 

"Dear  child,"  she  began,  but  Paulette  went  on 
almost  fiercely. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  as  though  I  shall  go  mad  think 
ing  of  Maurice,  a  prisoner  in  some  filthy  place,  suffer 
ing  from  his  wound,  with  perhaps  not  even  enough 
to  eat!"  She  bowed  her  head  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair  and  began  weeping  bitterly. 

The  General,  helpless  as  so  many  men  are  in  the 
sight  of  a  woman's  suffering,  paced  the  room  with 
long,  military  steps,  his  hands  clutching  each  other 
behind  his  back,  his  lower  lip  pursed  out  under  his 
mustache. 

Madame  tried  to  comfort  the  weeping  girl. 

"Paulette,"  she  said,  "you  must  be  calm,  your 
brother  and  Marie  will  arrive  at  any  moment." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  flashing,  her 
lips  drawn  back  from  her  white  teeth. 

"Why  did  Gerome  ever  marry  her?"  she  cried. 
"Why  do  we  have  to  have  her  with  us?" 

"Paulette,"  chided  her  mother,  "she  is  your 
brother's  wife." 

The  General  stopped  a  moment  in  his  pacing. 

"He   returns  to   the  front  to-morrow,"  he  said. 


166  »  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"She  must  not  be  left  unprotected.  It  is  not  her 
fault  that  she  was  born  on  the  other  side." 

But  the  girl's  pent-up  emotion  would  have  ex 
pression. 

"Who  was  she?"  she  demanded.  "What  was  she? 
We  know  nothing  of  her,  nothing,  excepting  that  she 
came  from  Vienna,  and  God  knows,  we  have  no  cause 
to  love  anyone  who  comes  from  there!" 

"Paulette,"  sighed  her  mother,  "you  hurt  me,  dear, 
when  you  talk  like  that";  and  the  General  added, 
stern  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  to  this  beloved  child 
of  his:  "Paulette,  you  must  promise  me  you  will  be 
kind  to  your  brother's  wife." 

The  girl  still  faced  them  defiantly,  her  breast  heav 
ing  with  the  sobs  she  was  trying  to  repress. 

"How  can  I?"  she  cried.  "How  can  I  bear  any 
good  will  to  one  of  those  fiends  who  are  responsible 
for  all  the  suffering  of  Maurice,  for  all  this  terrible 
agony !" 

Madame's  eyes  were  misty  as  she  looked  into  the 
drawn  face  which  for  the  moment,  rage  had  robbed 
of  all  its  charm. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said  softly,  "Marie  is  not  to 
blame." 

"She  is,  she  is,  I  hate  her!"  and  sobbing  hysteric 
ally,  Paulette  turned  and  ran  from  the  room. 

The  General  shook  his  head  sadly  as  he  looked 
after  her. 

"One  of  the  terrible  evils  of  war,"  he  said,  "is  that 
it  engenders  hatred  and  prejudice  that  live  for  gen 
erations  after  the  war  is  over." 

He  paced  the  room  thoughtfully.     Now  and  then 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  167 

he  let  his  eyes  rest  fondly  on  Madame  as  she  bent 
over  her  knitting.  The  quiet,  the  air  of  peace  that 
seemed  to  surround  them  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the 
distant  rumbling  where  war's  savage  work  was 
going  on. 

He  had  spent  his  days  after  retiring  from  the 
army,  here  at  his  chateau,  cultivating  its  lands,  plant 
ing  his  vineyards,  receiving  from  life  what  was  to 
him  its  most  treasured  possession,  peace  and  content 
ment. 

When  the  children  grew  up,  and  Gerome,  following 
his  father's  career,  entered  the  army,  the  General 
revived  his  youth  in  his  son's  letters,  while  Madame 
watching  Paulette's  romance  grow  and  ripen,  relived 
her  own  love  story. 

They  were  the  spirit  of  that  people  whose  civiliza 
tion  had  been  measured  by  the  hearth  and  roof-tree, 
whose  love  of  the  home  was  the  nucleus  of  that  im 
passible  barrier  which  had  opposed  the  Romans  and 
beaten  back  Attilla's  advancing  hordes,  and  who, 
now  that  the  enemy  was  again  clamoring  at  their 
gates,  were  prepared  to  prove  that  the  spirit  of  their 
fathers'  still  lived  and  would  fight  to  the  last  drop 
of  their  blood  to  preserve  that  most  sacred  thing  in 
the  hearts  of  all  people — Home ! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PAULETTE,  when  she  left  her  parents,  threw  a  scarf 
about  her  shoulders  and  ran  across  the  courtyard  to 
the  gate  house.  She  longed  for  the  sympathetic  love 
of  old  Nanine,  on  whose  bosom  she  had  always  found 
consolation. 

The  long  summer  twilight  was  graying  off  into 
night,  and  the  tall  black  poplars  above  the  garden 
wall  showed  black  against  the  darkening  sky.  From 
the  low  window,  thrown  open  to  the  soft  night  air, 
came  a  yellow  shaft  of  lamp-light  that  lay  in  a  square 
patch  on  the  neat  gravel  walk. 

As  Paulette's  small  heels  crunched  against  the  peb 
bles,  a  figure  suddenly  started  out  of  the  shadows  and 
a  man's  voice  called  softly: 

"Who  comes?" 

The  girl  drew  back,  startled. 

"It  is  I,  Paulette,"  she  answered.  He  came  closer 
and  Paulette  stared  unbelievingly  into  his  face. 

"Jacques !"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  Mam'selle,"  answered  the  man,  grinning 
broadly,  "from  Belgium — from  prison !" 

The  girl  gave  a  quick  gasp. 

"Captain  le  Cerf — what  of  him?" 

"I  have  news  of  him,  Mam'selle,  but  I  must 
report  to  the  General  first !" 

Paulette  swayed,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  steady 
herself  against  the  wall. 

"Maurice!"    she    whispered   the   name   under  her 
168 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  169 

breath  as  though  half  afraid  of  what  the  news  might 
be.  "Tell  me !  Quick !"  but  Jacques  shook  his  head 
stolidly. 

"First  the  General,"  he  said,  and  turning  on  his 
heel,  started  toward  the  house. 

There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  follow.  At 
the  door  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"Will  you  tell  your  father  I  am  here,  Mam'selle?" 
he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  piteously. 

"Give  me  my  news,"  she  begged. 

"What  I  have  to  say  must  be  said  to  the  General, 
Mam'selle,"  and  Paulette,  the  daughter  of  a  sol 
dier,  knew  he  was  right.  But  she  was  trembling  and 
breathless  when  she  opened  the  salon  door. 

Her  mother  was  still  sitting  as  she  had  left  her  in 
the  chair  near  the  table,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  the 
lamp-light  accentuating  the  silver  of  her  hair.  Her 
eyes  were  closed  and  there  were  weary  shadows  under 
them. 

The  girl  went  softly  to  her  side  and  laid  a  loving 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  The  knowledge  that  she  soon 
was  to  have  news  of  Maurice,  had  softened  her  heart 
for  a  moment,  and  driven  out  the  bitterness  she  felt. 

Madame  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start. 

The  girl's  cheeks  were  flushed,  the  hand  on  her 
mother's  shoulder  shook.  Madame  looked  at  her 
apprehensively. 

"What  is  it!"  she  asked.  These  were  days  when 
the  most  insignificant  happenings  might  have  the 
direst  foreboding. 


170  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Jacques  is  back!  He  is  in  the  hall.  He  is  wait 
ing  to  see  father !" 

Madame  rose  hastily  to  her  feet. 

"Jacques?    Is  it  possible?" 

"It  is,  mother!  He  is  here!  He  has  news  of 
Maurice !" 

At  the  sound  of  her  excited  voice,  the  General 
opened  the  door  of  his  study. 

Paulette  waited  for  no  more  than  the  question  in 
his  eyes. 

"Jacques  is  here,"  she  cried,  "he  is  waiting  to  see 
you!  Oh,  father,  ask  him  quickly  his  news  from 
Maurice !" 

The  General  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  sur 
prise  as  the  boy  entered  and  stood  at  attention. 

The  girl  clung  to  her  father's  arm,  and  Madame 
smiled  kindly. 

"I  understand  you  were  a  prisoner,"  began  the 
General. 

In  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  they  could  see  how 
loosely  the  young  soldier's  dusty  uniform  hung  on  his 
square  shoulders.  The  skin  across  his  cheek-bones 
was  tightly  stretched,  and  there  were  lines  about  his 
mouth  that  must  have  come  from  suffering.  His  chin 
was  blue  with  a  week's  growth  of  beard. 

"I  have  a  message  from  Captain  le  Cerf,"  he  said. 

Paulette  clung  to  her  father's  arm,  trembling  with 
expectation. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  the  General  patting  the  shak 
ing  hand  reassuringly. 

"It's  a  long  story,  Monsieur." 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  171 

"Tell  it  in  your  own  way,  then,"  he  said,  motion 
ing  him  to  a  chair. 

Jacques  seated  himself  stiffly,  and  began. 

"We  were  prisoners  in  the  same  camp  !  It  was  just 
outside  Liege.  Soon  after  I  got  there,  I  saw  the 
Captain.  He  had  been  wounded." 

Paulette,  her  eyes  black  and  burning  in  her  white 
face,  followed  every  word  with  pitiful  eagerness. 

"I  was  given  permission  to  take  care  of  him. 
There  was  an  English  nurse  there.  She  was  very  kind 
to  the  prisoners.  She  told  us  how  it  would  be  possible 
for  some  of  us  to  get  away.  We  made  our  plans,  and 
yesterday,  two  others  and  myself  got  across  the 
border.  The  Captain  would  have  come  also  if  he  had 
been  strong  enough,  but  he  will  be  here  soon,"  he 
hastened  to  add,  when  he  saw  the  look  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  "and  when  it  has  all  been  arranged,  a  message 
will  be  sent  to  Division  Headquarters  at  St.  Quentin, 
giving  the  name  of  the  town  and  the  time  when  he 
will  reach  the  frontier." 

Paulette  was  shaking  with  emotion. 

"Escape !"  she  breathed.    "If  he  only  can !" 

What  a  vindication  of  her  pride  in  Maurice  this 
would  be.  To  escape,  to  show  the  Germans  how  futile 
their  efforts  were  to  hold  him.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
and  the  blood  surged  to  her  cheeks.  To  trick  the 
hated  enemy  that  held  him,  what  a  triumph ! 

Then  she  thought  of  his  wound,  and  her  momentary 
elation  left  her.  Fear  returned. 

"Is  he  better?    Are  you  sure  he  is  better?" 

"Yes,  Mam'selle,  or  I  would  not  have  left  him!" 

Madame  rose. 


172  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"I  must  tell  Nanine,"  she  said,  "that  her  son  is 
here !"  She  rang,  and  after  a  brief  interval  came  the 
old  woman's  knock. 

For  a  moment,  the  Breton  peasant  woman  stood 
facing  them,  then  with  a  glad  cry,  she  stumbled 
toward  the  young  soldier. 

"Jacques,"  she  cried,  and  the  joy  and  love  in  her 
voice  brought  a  lump  into  the  boy's  throat. 

"Mother,"  he  said  huskily,  as  she  rocked  him  in  her 
stout  old  arms,  "Mother!" 

Nanine  was  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  the  others. 
She  was  the  first  mother,  the  primeval  woman  with 
her  child.  The  maternal  love  that  goes  out  alike 
from  high  and  low,  from  civilized  and  savage,  was 
in  her  voice  and  eyes. 

Presently  she  held  him  away  from  her. 

"I  knew  they  couldn't  keep  you,"  she  said  fondly. 
"1  knew  you'd  find  your  way  back  to  me.  Are  you 
well?  Did  they  give  you  enough  to  eat?"  she  turned 
to  the  others.  "He  always  wanted  such  a  lot  to  eat !" 

Jacques  grinned  sheepishly.  His  mates  too,  had 
found  this  out. 

Paulette  broke  in  eagerly. 

"Tell  me  about  Captain  le  Cerf,  was  he  comfort 
able?  Were  they  kind  to  him?" 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her,  surprised. 

"What  are  you  saying,  Mam'selle?  Did  the  good 
Lord  bring  them  together?" 

Jacques  nodded  and  turned  to  the  General. 

"We  were  all  well  treated.  The  hardest  part  was 
not  getting  any  news.  They  told  us  things  were 
going  against  us,  but  we  knew  they  were  lying." 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  173 

His  mother's  eyes  devoured  him. 

"How  were  you  taken  ?"  asked  the  General. 

"Four  others  and  myself  were  detailed  one  night 
to  cut  some  barbed  wire.  Their  star-shells  discovered 
us  to  the  Bodies,  Three  of  our  men  went  down,  the 
other  and  myself  were  captured  and  taken  to  a  prison 
camp  in  Belgium.  Among  the  prisoners  the  men  and 
officers  are  kept  separated,  but  one  day  when  I  was 
doing  some  of  the  work  they  had  set  me  at,  I  recog 
nized  Captain  le  Cerf  as  he  passed  near  me  with  a  hos 
pital  orderly.  I  suppose  you've  heard  that  he  was 
taken  in  the  first  attack  on  Liege.  He'd  been  in  the 
hospital  a  long  time  when  I  got  there,  as  his  wound 
had  been  serious.  You  will  be  glad  to  know,  my  Gen 
eral,  that  in  Belgium  there  is  a  band  of  men  and 
women  whose  good  work  it  is  to  try  and  smuggle 
French  prisoners  and  their  own  men  of  military  age, 
out  of  the  country.  There's  an  English  nurse — one  of 
God's  angels  we  call  her — who  is  at  the  head  of  this 
band.  She's  helped  a  lot  of  us.  But  you  see,  when  it 
came  to  Captain  le  Cerf's  turn  to  be  helped  to  escape, 
he  was  still  so  weak  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  make 
the  attempt.  I  was  next,  so  it  was  arranged  that  if 
I  got  through  the  lines,  I  was  to  bring  you  word  that 
you  might  expect  him.  They're  going  to  get  him 
across  as  soon  as  they  can  !" 

"When — where?"  broke  in  Paulette. 

"That  I  cannot  tell,  Mam'selle.  The  next  man 
that  is  passed  through  will  know  the  exact  time  and 
place  where  Captain  le  Cerf  will  reach  our  lines !" 

"Good!"  said  the  General.  "Now  tell  us  how  you 
made  your  own  escape."  And  Jacques,  a  little  ner- 


174  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

vously,  though  proud  of  his  momentary  importance, 
launched  into  his  story. 

"This  English  nurse  was  to  give  me  all  the  par 
ticulars,  but  so  that  I  could  get  near  her,  I  had  to 
be  in  the  hospital,  and  I'm  a  pretty  healthy  man," 
his  shoulders  squared  a  little.  "I  was  given  some 
medicine  and  told  to  take  it  and  pretend  to  be  sick." 
He  made  a  wry  face  at  the  memory.  "I  didn't  have 
to  pretend.  They  got  me  to  the  hospital,  and  while 
their  doctor  was  near,  my  nurse  was  just  like 
any  other  nurse,  but  as  soon  as  he  left,  she  leaned 
over  me  and  whispered  my  instructions.  You  know, 
sir,  that  the  nurses  have  to  report  all  deaths ;  well, 
I  was  to  die — and  when  I  came  to  again,  she'd  have 
a  Boche  driver's  uniform  ready  for  me.  That  night 
they  smuggled  me  out.  As  far  as  those  Bodies  know, 
I'm  lying  out  under  one  of  their  little  crosses.  I  re 
ported  where  I  was  told  to,  as  an  ambulance  driver. 
My  uniform  and  accent  were  unquestioned,  and  I  was 
put  in  charge  of  an  ambulance  and  detailed  to  pick 
up  the  wounded.  A  man  can  feel  as  sorry  for  a 
wounded  Boche  as  for  one  of  his  own,  and  an  ambu 
lance  driver  sees  a  lot  of  suffering.  I  had  to  make 
many  trips  before  the  time  came  when  our  Poilus 
came  charging  across  No  Man's  Land.  I  was  in  the 
front  trench  with  my  stretcher-bearer  at  the  time. 
When  I  saw  our  men  coming,  I  pretended  to  be 
wounded,  and  dropped.  They  took  the  trench.  I 
tore  off  as  much  of  the  field  gray  as  I  could 
and  told  them  who  I  was.  I  was  ordered  to  report 
to  my  own  regiment,  and  my  commanding  officer  sent 
me  here!"  Jacques  told  his  story  with  the  simple 
directness  of  the  man  whose  life  is  action,  not  words. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  175 

Paulette  had  followed  eagerly.  Her  mother's  eyes 
were  wet  as  she  listened.  Old  Nanine,  her  ample 
bosom  rising  and  falling  with  the  breathless  wonder 
that  this  son,  who  was  still  a  child  to  her,  had  come 
through  so  much,  murmured  half  aloud,  a  little 
prayer  of  thanks  for  his  safety. 

The  General  nodded  his  approval. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "Report  yourself  to  Colonel 
Rambeau  at  St.  Quentin.  Tell  him  when  word  cornes 
from  Captain  le  Cerf,  that  my  orders  are  that  you 
are  to  bring  it  here  immediately.  Be  careful  with 
it,  it  is  important  that  it  does  not  get  into  other 
hands." 

Jacques  saluted. 

"I  shall  leave  word  that  you  may  come  directly  to 
Mademoiselle,"  continued  the  General,  smiling  indul 
gently  on  his  daughter.  "That  is  all."  \ 

"Nanine,"  said  Madame,  rising,  "you  must  want 
to  talk  to  your  boy." 

As  the  mother  and  son  hurried  along  the  path  to 
the  gate  house,  the  door  opened,  and  Angele  appeared 
in  the  shaft  of  a  light  that  poured  out. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  and  watched  them,  and 
then  with  a  cry,  ran  and  threw  her  arms  wildly 
about  the  boy's  neck. 

Nanine  turned  with  a  sigh  and  went  into  the  house, 
leaving  the  girl  to  sob  in  her  sweetheart's  arms,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  she  called : 

"Come  in,  Jacques  is  hungry !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AFTER  the  door  had  closed  on  Nanine  and  her  son, 
the  General  patted  the  brown  head  resting  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Isn't  it  glorious  news,  Paulette?" 

"It's  wonderful  how  cheaply  these  men  hold  their 
lives,"  Madame  said  musingly.  "Chances  that  would 
have  seemed  madness  in  normal  times  have  now  become 
part  of  the  day's  work." 

Paulette  nestled  closer  in  her  father's  arms.  "If 
he  only  reaches  the  frontier  safely,"  she  murmured, 
"if  he  only  is  not  discovered  and  taken  back." 

Madame's  face  was  sad  as  she  comforted  the  girl. 
Her  own  sorrow  and  foreboding  were  kept  close  shut 
in  her  heart.  But  self-command  is  measured  by  those 
rare  occasions  when  the  evidence  of  inward  struggle 
is  seen  through  the  cloak  of  restraint.  Something  of 
what  she  felt,  shook  for  a  moment  her  outward  calm, 
trembled  in  her  voice,  shone  through  the  sudden  mist 
in  her  eyes. 

"Poor  Maman"  said  Paulette,  "you  have  so  much 
to  think  of !  I  have  been  a  selfish  little  beast !" 

The  gilt  clock  on  the  mantle  chimed  out  nine. 
It  would  soon  be  time  for  Gerome  to  arrive.  She 
remembered  with  what  happiness  she  had  always 
looked  forward  to  his  visits,  their  days  of  comrade 
ship.  Now  all  this  was  to  be  changed.  She  knew 
she  was  unjust.  But  still  there  lingered  in  her  heart 
the  resentment  against  this  stranger  whom  she  in 
stinctively  distrusted.  If  her  brother  might  only 

176 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  177 

have  been  coming  alone.  All  his  time  must  now  be 
given  to  this  woman  of  alien  blood.  She  knew  she 
was  unjust,  that  she  had  no  grounds  on  which  to  base 
her  dislike,  excepting  the  fact  that  she  belonged  to  a 
nation  which  was  at  war  with  her  own.  Her  thoughts 
were  interrupted  by  the  honking  of  a  motor-horn,  and 
the  swift-following  sounds  of  clutching  brakes  and 
mingling  voices. 

"Here  they  come  now,"  she  cried,  her  anger  and 
bitterness  against  Marie,  which  she  had  tried  to 
crush,  surging  back. 

Madame  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Ring  for  Antoine  to  get  their  bags,"  she  said 
quickly. 

Paulette  pulled  the  old-fashioned  bell  rope  that 
hung  by  the  mantle,  and  then  turned  and  stood  star 
ing  sullenly  into  the  fire. 

The  General  hurried  to  the  long  windows  and  threw 
them  open.  He  could  see  the  white  light  of  the 
motor  lamps  cutting  a  path  through  the  darkness. 
Gerome's  voice,  as  he  gave  orders  to  the  chauffeur, 
came  to  him  clearly,  and  presently  he  saw  him  come 
swinging  along  the  terrace,  the  light  from  the  window 
brightening  the  colors  of  his  uniform.  Marie, 
swathed  in  motor  veils  and  wrapped  in  a  heavy  coat, 
clung  to  his  arm.  The  lamp  light  silhouetted  the 
General's  fine  figure  and  Gerome  called  gayly  as  he 
saw  him. 

"Here  we  are,  father!"  and  he  stood  aside  to  let 
Marie  enter. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  in  the  window,  almost 
afraid  to  venture  in.  All  the  way  from  Paris,  she  had 


178  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

been  torturing  herself  with  the  thought  of  how  her 
husband's  people  would  receive  her,  how  much  they 
would  let  the  knowledge  of  her  enemy  blood  mar 
their  love  for  her.  She  looked  about  her  apprehen 
sively,  but  the  General's  kind  voice  dispelled  her  fears. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said  as  he  led  her  in,  "welcome 
home!" 

Marie  threw  back  her  veils,  their  soft  gray  fram 
ing  her  sweet  face  and  golden  bands  of  hair. 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame,  "how  happy  we  are  to 
have  you  with  us !" 

"You  are  all  so  good  to  take  me  in,"  faltered  the 
girl,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  Gratefully,  she  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  turning  to  Paulette, 
smiled  wistfully  into  the  handsome  face,  but  Paulette's 
greeting  was  ungracious  and  perfunctory,  and  the 
smile  died  on  Marie's  lips. 

Gerome's  arm  was  about  his  mother's  shoulders. 
She  drew  his  head  down  to  hers  and  kissed  him  ten 
derly,  and  then  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Come  dear,  rest  here,"  she  said  with  sweet  hos 
pitality.  "You  must  be  tired  after  your  long  ride 
from  Paris." 

Marie  sank  into  the  chair  the  General  brought  for 
ward  for  her. 

"There  has  been  so  much  to  weary  me,"  she  sighed. 

"Yes,  dear,  we  all  realize  that,  and  each  of  us,  in 
his  own  way,  has  tried  to  lighten  the  burden,"  and 
Madame  helped  the  girl  unfasten  her  wraps. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here,"  Marie  looked  about  her 
gratefully,  "it's — it's  almost  like  peace  again." 

"I   knew    you    would    be    happy,"    said    Gerome, 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  179 

coming  over  and  sitting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  "I 
told  you  they  would  be  glad  to  have  you  with  them." 

The  General  beamed  upon  her.  In  the  code  of  the 
gallant  old  soldier,  a  pretty  woman  was  meant  to  be 
taken  care  of. 

"We  will  do  our  best  to  make  you  feel  at  home  with 
us,"  he  assured  her. 

"And  to  make  you  happy,"  added  Madame;  but 
at  her  words,  Marie  broke  down. 

"Happy  ?"  she  sobbed,  "how  can  I  be  happy  ?  He 
is  going  away  to-morrow." 

Gerome  turned  helplessly  to  his  mother. 

"What  can  I  do  for  her?"  he  asked. 

"Come,  come,"  and  the  General  patted  Marie's 
hand,  "we  each  have  our  part  to  do,  my  child,"  and 
then  for  the  first  time,  Paulette  joined  in  the  con 
versation. 

"You  are  not  the  only  one  who  is  sending  some  one 
to  fight  the  enemy."  She  flung  the  word  at  Marie 
as  though  it  were  her  own  name,  and  her  sister-in- 
law  cowered  under  it. 

Gerome  was  angry.  He  had  foreseen  trouble  with 
Paulette,  but  had  hoped  that  the  assurance  of  his 
wife's  loyalty,  would  have  banished  all  resentment. 

"Paulette !"  he  began,  but  his  mother  inter 
rupted. 

"Don't  mind,  dear,5*  she  said  softly.  "Paulette's 
heart  is  in  Belgium.  Maurice  is  still  a  prisoner." 

Marie  looked  at  her  pityingly.  She  could  under 
stand.  She  remembered  the  young,  laughing-eyed 
officer  who  had  been  so  kind  at  her  wedding.  She 
remembered  the  happiness  of  these  two  young  people, 


180  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

and  her  heart  bled  for  Paulette.  But  the  girl  looked 
at  her  defiantly,  ignoring  the  pity  in  her  eyes. 

"They'll  find  they  can't  keep  him !"  she  said  so  bit 
terly,  that  the  General  hastened  to  break  in. 

"I'll  ring  for  Antoine  to  help  you  with  your  bags." 

He  was  about  to  pull  the  bell-rope,  when  the  door 
opened  and  the  butler  stood  on  the  threshold.  His 
thin  shoulders  stooped  slightly  with  characteristic 
deference. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Marie  felt  a  horrible  fear 
gripping  at  her  heart.  Her  throat  seemed  to  tighten 
as  though  cold  fingers  clutched  it.  She  turned 
slowly,  the  blood  in  her  veins  suddenly  frozen,  for  the 
man  standing  in  the  doorway  wearing  'the  livery  of 
a  servant,  the  humility  of  a  menial,  was  Von  Pfaffen. 

For  a  tense  moment  they  faced  one  another.  The 
man's  eyes  were  like  live  coals  in  a  face  that  was 
otherwise  dead.  Marie's  hand  went  to  her  throat. 
There  was  such  a  look  of  terror  in  her  face,  that  the 
attention  of  all  was  directed  to  her,  and  the  butler's 
imperturbable  mask,  which  for  one  swift  moment  had 
slipped  aside,  had  time  to  adjust  itself.  He  stood 
watching  her  closely,  as  the  family  gathered  about, 
all  solicitude. 

"She  is  faint,"  cried  Madame,  "some  water — 
quick !"  but  Marie  motioned  them  away. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "It  is  nothing! 
Thanks!"  and  by  a  supreme  effort,  she  regained  her 
self-control. 

The  butler  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway 
quietly  waiting  for  his  orders,  his  thin  face  set  and 
expressionless. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  181 

"Get  Madame's  bags,  Antoine,"  directed  the  Gen 
eral,  and  the  man  turned  with  a  slight  bow  and  left 
the  room. 

Gerome's  eyes  followed  him. 

"What  has  become  of  Fra^ois  ?"  he  asked. 

"Fra^ois  was  young  enough  to  be  called,"  the 
General  answered.  "He  left  us  a  week  ago." 

"Antoine  came  to  us  highly  recommended," 
Madame  assured  him,  disturbed  for  a  moment  by  the 
doubt  in  his  eyes.  "He  is  over  age  for  the  army,  but 
seems  an  intelligent,  faithful  servant." 

As  she  spoke,  the  man  returned  carrying  the  bags, 
and  stood  awaiting  orders. 

"Where  are  these  to  go,  Madame?"  he  asked 
quietly,  and  at  his  voice,  Marie  again  turned  and 
stared  into  his  face,  like  a  bird  that  watches  a  snake. 

The  man  paid  no  heed  to  her,  however,  but  waited 
respectfully  for  Madame  to  answer. 

"Put  them  in  the  East  room,  Antoine,"  she  told 
him,  and  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head,  he 
crossed  the  room  and  went  out  into  the  hall. 

Marie's  eyes  followed  him,  her  lips  apart,  her 
fingers  tightly  clenched. 

Paulette,  from  her  chair  by  the  mantel,  where  she 
had  subsided  after  the  speech  flung  at  her  sister-in- 
law,  watched  her  under  sullen  brows.  She  hated 
Germans.  They  couldn't  make  her  like  this  one.  She 
wouldn't ! 

As  the  door  closed  after  Antoine,  Marie  gave  a 
little  gasp,  and  Madame,  frightened,  came  to  her 
side. 

"Marie,"  she  said,  "are  you  ill?" 


182  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

The  girl's  eyes  were  still  on  the  door. 

"I — I —  "  she  began,  and  then  turned  piteously 
to  her  husband.  "Oh,  Gerome !" 

The  blow  had  come  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly. 
She  felt  as  one  stricken  blind,  groping  in  the 
dark.  This  man,  here,  where  she  had  come  for 
protection  and  shelter?  Her  mind  could  scarcely 
grasp  the  full  horror  of  the  situation.  Waves  of 
nausea  passed  over  her,  she  was  sick  with  unutterable 
terror.  Was  it  possible  they  could  not  hear  the  wild 
beating  of  her  heart,  the  voice  of  conscience  crying 
her  guilt?  Surely  those  about  her  must  have  seen 
that  she  knew  him !  The  security  into  which  she  had 
lulled  herself,  was  shattered  and  fallen  away.  But 
why  had  he  not  recognized  her?  What  mission  had 
he  here  in  this  house?  Oh,  God,  how  was  it  to  end? 
But  her  brain  refused  her  further  service.  Her  face 
grew  white  as  marble,  and  her  head  fell  on  Gerome's 
shoulder. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  quickly. 

"Marie,  my  darling,  what  is  it?  Mother,  bring 
some  cognac !  Quick !" 

Madame  hurried  for  the  decanter,  the  General  bent 
over  her,  full  of  solicitude,  even  Paulette,  stirred  into 
action  by  Marie's  helplessness,  knelt  at  her  side,  and 
began  chafing  her  wrists,  her  training  as  a  nurse 
making  her  forget  her  resentment  for  the  moment. 
As  Gerome  held  the  glass  to  his  wife's  lips,  her  blue 
eyes  opened  mistily. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  anxiously.  "What  is  it?  Are 
you  better?" 

She  roused  herself  with  an  effort. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  183 

"It's  nothing — nothing;  I'm  all  right  now — I'm 
sorry — I  suppose  I  was  over-tired,"  and  she  leaned 
wearily  against  his  shoulder. 

"She  has  not  been  quite  strong,  lately,"  he  ex 
plained,  "she  is  nervous,  worrying  because  I  must  re 
turn  to  the  front  to-night." 

"To-night!"  said  his  mother,  startled,  "so  soon?" 

"Yes,  ma  mere"  he  answered,  smoothing  his  wife's 
golden  hair  tenderly;  "but,"  and  he  turned  to  his 
father  with  a  significant  look,  "I  shall  be  here  again 
in  the  morning." 

The  General  pursed  up  his  lips  and  tapped  them 
with  his  forefinger. 

"H'm,"  he  said,  "so  I  supposed — to-morrow — h'm !" 

Gerome  bent  over  his  wife  tenderly. 

"Are  you  well  enough  to  go  to  your  room  now, 
dear  ?  I  think  you  will  feel  better  if  you  lie  down !" 

"Nanine  will  bring  you  some  refreshments,"  added 
Madame. 

Marie  forced  a  smile  to  her  stiff  lips. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said.  "I — I'll  go  di 
rectly.  I'm  quite  well  now.  I'm  sorry  to  have  been 
so  much  trouble!" 

Madame  gently  pressed  her  hand. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "it  gives  us  pleasure  to  do 
all  we  can  for  you.  You  must  rest  and  when  you  have 
recovered  from  your  fatigue,  here,  in  our  wonderful 
country  air,  you  will  soon  be  yourself  again !" 

Gerome  looked  about  the  room.  His  mother's  eyes 
smiled  back  into  his.  He  had  seen  approval  of  Marie 
in  the  General's  face  when  they  had  arrived,  but 
Paulette  was  still  unwon,  What  could  he  do  to 


184  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

overcome  this  dislike  that  his  sister  was  making  so 
apparent?  He  felt  sure  that  if  he  were  near, 
Paulette  could  soon  be  made  to  see  her  injustice,  but 
he  must  leave  Marie,  and  the  thought  troubled  him. 
His  arm  tightened  about  the  trembling  girl. 

"There  is  no  other  place  where  I  could  leave  my 
little  wife,"  he  said.  "You  can't,  any  of  you,  know 
what  she  means  to  me !" 

"When  you  made  her  your  wife,  you  made  her  our 
daughter,"  said  Madame  graciously. 

Gerome  laid  his  cheek  against  his  wife's,  his  eyes 
on  Paulette. 

"You  and  Marie  must  be  great  friends,  little 
sister,"  he  said;  but  Paulette  shrugged  sullenly,  and 
Marie  hastily  broke  in: 

"She  is  unhappy,  dear,  because  her  sweetheart  is 
a  prisoner." 

The  last  word  whipped  Paulette's  resentment 
again.  She  would  take  no  pity  from  an  enemy. 

"A  prisoner,"  she  repeated,  "held  by  the  Ger 
mans,"  and  she  swung  about  angrily ;  "but  he's  going 
to  get  away,  he's  coming  back  to  me  in  spite  of  them !" 

"Paulette !"  the  General  was  stern,  "I  must  beg  of 
you —  "  and  Madame  turned  to  Gerome  in  apology. 

"She  is  unhappy,  dear,"  she  explained. 

Marie  lifted  her  head  from  Gerome's  shoulder  and 
drew  away  from  his  arms. 

"I  can  understand,  I  know  what  you  are  suffer 
ing,"  she  said  tensely.  "If  Gerome  were  in  the  posi 
tion  of  Maurice,  if  he  were  forcibly  withheld  from  me, 
I  would  hate,  as  you  do,  those  who  were  responsible. 
I  am  of  the  same  blood  as  they,  but  I  am  just  as  loyal 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  185 

to  my  husband's  cause  as  you  are.  Don't  you  believe 
me?" 

Gerome  looked  at  her  fondly. 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?"  he  asked.  "Am  I  not  the 
most  fortunate  of  men?" 

"I  do  not  believe  that  anyone  who  has  the  blood 
of  our  enemies  in  their  veins,  can  ever  be  truly  loyal 
to  France !"  said  Paulette,  and  this  time,  her  momen 
tary  courage  gone,  Marie  hid  her  face  on  her  hus 
band's  arm. 

"Paulette,"  said  Madame,  "I  am  shocked!  You 
grieve  me  beyond  expression !" 

The  General  looked  at  his  daughter  in  astonish 
ment,  this  was  carrying  things  too  far. 

Gerome's  face  flushed  under  his  tan  and  a  dan 
gerous  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Paulette,"  he  said  passionately,  "Marie  is  my  wife 
— your  sister,"  and  he  turned  to  comfort  the  trem 
bling  girl  in  his  arms. 

Madame  drew  her  away  tenderly. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  are  tired.  Let  me 
show  you  your  room.  Paulette,  you  had  best  go  to 
yours,  you  are  nervous.  To-morrow  you  will  be 
yourself." 

The  girl's  face  flushed.  They  were  treating  her  as 
a  bad  child.  Rising  hastily,  she  hurried  out  of  the 
room. 

Gerome  kissed  his  wife  tenderly  as  he  bade  her 
follow  his  mother. 

"Good-bye  for  awhile,  dear,"  he  said.  "I'll  come 
to  you  when  I  have  talked  with  my  father." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  night  was  warm  for  October,  and  a  late  moon 
was  just  rising.  The  garden  seemed  so  peaceful,  only 
the  distant  muttering  of  the  guns  constantly  re 
minded  one  that  not  far  away  the  Red  Dragon  lay 
in  wait,  its  maw  insatiable. 

Must  all  the  youth,  the  beauty  of  France,  be 
offered  up,  before  this  monster  was  satisfied  ?  Would 
this  home  with  its  pleasant  orchards,  its  fertile  gar 
dens,  be  trampled  under  ruthless  heels,  laid  waste  as 
so  many  others  had?  And  when  it  was  all  over,  and 
nothing  remained  but  smoking  ruins  and  wasted 
fields,  deep  scars  on  the  country's  breast  that  time 
itself  could  scarcely  heal,  when  all  the  youth  and 
flower  had  become  only  a  memory  to  be  cherished  in 
the  bitter  hearts  of  a  saddened  people,  what  then? 
What  would  have  been  accomplished?  Could  any 
price  that  might  be  paid  to  the  victor,  be  great 
enough  to  compensate  for  this? 

Some  such  thoughts  as  these  went  through  the 
General's  mind  as  he  turned  from  the  window  to  his 
son.  This  son,  the  very  apple  of  his  eye,  how  much 
longer  would  that  eye  behold  him? 

Gerome  came  to  -the  table. 

"Well,  sir?"  he  began. 

The  General  led  the  way  into  his  study. 

"We  can  talk  more  freely  here,"  he  said. 

They  had  scarcely  entered,  when  the  butler  fol 
lowed  with  a  tray  of  glasses  and  a  decanter  of  wine. 

186 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  187 

"Anything  else  to-night,  Monsieur?"  he  asked. 

The  General  filled  a  glass. 

"No,  Antoine,  that  is  all.  You  may  close  the  win 
dows.  The  Colonel  will  see  that  the  door  is  latched 
as  he  goes  out." 

The  man  busied  himself  with  the  fastenings. 

"They  are  to  meet  here  to-morrow,"  began  Gerome, 
but  his  father,  with  a  lift  of  his  eyebrow,  indicated 
the  butler  who  was  just  finishing  his  task. 

"Tst !"  he  said  warningly,  and  then  to  the  man, 
"That  will  do,  Antoine." 

He  bowed  with  that  oddly  quiet  air  of  his. 

"Very  well,  Monsieur,  good-night,"  he  said,  and 
went  out  softly,  but  whether  by  accident  or  design, 
the  door  he  closed  after  him,  failed  to  catch  and  re 
mained  ever  so  slightly  ajar. 

Gerome  was  impatient  to  impart  his  information, 
and  the  man  had  scarcely  gone,  when  he  began. 

"I  have  been  given  orders  to  notify  the  command 
ing  officers  of  all  the  brigades  of  our  division  to  meet 
here  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "I  must  leave  for  St. 
Quentin  to-night." 

"The  others  have  been  informed?" 

"Yes!" 

The  General  tapped  his  pursed  lips  with  his  fore 
finger  as  he  always  did  when  thinking. 

"H'm,"  he  said,  "by  nine  they  should  all  be  here." 

"I  have  also  been  instructed  to  hand  you  this." 
Gerome  took  a  folded  paper  in  a  long  blue  cover  from 
his  pocket  and  put  it  into  his  father's  hand,  much  as 
though  he  were  handing  him  the  wealth  of  the  world. 
"It  is  the  plan  of  location  of  our  batteries," 


188  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"This  is  very  important,  my  boy,"  said  the  Gen 
eral,  as  he  took  the  packet.  "I  wonder  what  their 
intelligence  bureau  would  say  if  they  could  get  their 
hands  on  this?  Let  us  study  the  situation." 

He  pulled  open  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  leather 
case.  They  drew  up  chairs  on  either  side  of  the 
table,  and  under  the  lamp  light,  the  two  heads, 
father's  and  son's,  bent  over  the  maps  which  the  Gen 
eral  unrolled. 

The  room  was  silent  as  they  studied  the  drawings. 
Only  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  ticking  out  the  passing 
minutes  and  the  occasional  rustle  of  the  papers,  broke 
the  stillness.  They  were  both  too  absorbed  to  have 
heard  the  sound,  if  there  had  been  a  sound  to  hear, 
of  the  door  behind  them,  as  it  slowly  opened  the 
merest  trifle,  too  intent  on  their  work  to  see  the  lean 
face  of  Antoine  as  it  peered  through,  the  meekness 
gone  from  the  watchful  eyes,  the  humility  from  the 
thin,  hard  lips. 

"I  hope  we  can  make  this  blow  a  decisive  one,"  said 
Gerome. 

The  General  flattened  his  finger  over  a  spot  on  the 
map  and  referred  to  the  papers  his  son  had  brought. 

"It  is  about  here,  I  would  say,"  he  began. 

Gerome  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Isn't  that  one  of  the  most  strongly  fortified  parts 
of  their  line?"  he  asked. 

"And  therefore,  the  place  where  attack  will  be 
least  expected." 

Gerome  nodded,  and  the  General  went  on. 

"Our  artillery  is  being  heavily  engaged  along  the 
whole  line,  but  it  is  at  this  point,"  and  his  finger 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  189 

tapped  the  map,  "that  the  infantry  will  be  massed 
for  the  thrust." 

"How  many  men  will  be  used?"  asked  Gerome,  lean 
ing  closer  to  study  the  situation. 

"About  five  corps  with  the  necessary  reserves." 

The  young  Colonel  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"It  seems  logical,"  he  said,  "it  should  succeed." 

The  face  behind  them  smiled  evilly  and  melted  into 
the  darkness  back  of  it,  and  as  quietly  as  it  had 
opened,  so  quietly  the  door  was  closed. 

"It's  a  hard  game  we've  been  playing,"  said  the 
General,  "but  we  are  holding  them  now.  They  have 
taught  us  a  great  deal,  but  if  this  plan  results  as  we 
hope,"  the  great  head  went  up  triumphantly,  "it  is 
the  beginning  of  the  end!"  His  face  lit  up  with  a 
proud  smile.  "You  will  be  the  youngest  officer  here 
to-morrow." 

"I  am  honored  to  be  present  at  a  conference  that 
may  decide  the  fate  of  France,"  said  Gerome  earn 
estly,  as  he  rose. 

His  father  pushed  back  the  maps,  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  love, 
the  love  that  a  fine  father  gives  to  a  fine  son,  "I  be 
lieve  you  are  worthy  of  the  honor.  Now  go  and  kiss 
your  pretty  wife  good-night.  You  have  a  long  ride 
before  you.  I  am  going  into  the  garden  to  smoke." 

Gerome  looked  into  the  kindly  old  eyes. 

"Good-night,  sir!"  he  said,  his  shoulders  squared 
to  meet  the  trust  he  saw  there.  "Good-night." 

For  a  moment  after  his  son  had  gone,  the  General 
stood  under  the  lamp-light  looking  over  the  papers, 


190  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

his  shaggy  brows  were  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  his 
lower  lip  pursed  out.  There  was  a  wordless  prayer 
in  his  heart,  that  this  might  be  the  end.  Soldier 
though  he  was,  born  and  bred  to  the  sword,  the  red 
flood  that  was  sweeping  the  world  was  nauseating, 
sickening.  He,  like  many  others,  as  bravely  fighting, 
as  unflinchingly  facing  the  storm  of  war,  longed  for 
the  peace  that  must  come. 

He  started  to  roll  the  paper  with  his  maps  in  their 
case,  but  suddenly  he  stopped,  reconsidering,  and 
shaking  his  head,  placed  the  case  carefully  in  his 
pocket.  This  was  of  too  much  importance  to  be 
trusted  away  from  his  keeping.  From  the  humidor 
on  the  table  he  carefully  selected  a  cigar,  bit  off  the 
end,  and  lit  it  leisurely,  then  opening  one  of  the  long 
windows,  strolled  out  into  the  garden  to  think  as  he 
smoked. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  light  of  the  General's  cigar  had  scarcely  dis 
appeared  when  the  door  opened  softly,  and  a  head 
was  cautiously  thrust  in.  After  a  careful  look  about, 
Von  Pfaffen  entered.  His  humility  was  gone,  and 
the  slight  stoop  of  his  shoulders  had  lifted  into  a 
straight  military  line.  He  went  directly  to  the  table 
and  began  eagerly  searching  among  the  papers. 
Once  or  twice  he  stopped,  his  head  raised,  alertly 
listening,  but  the  house  was  quiet  and  the  General's 
walk  had  carried  him  far  into  the  garden. 

The  man  turned  the  papers  over  and  over.  Evi 
dently  he  failed  to  find  what  he  sought.  His  brows 
bent  in  disappointment,  but  loath  to  give  up  easily, 
he  went  on  with  the  search. 

Suddenly,  the  door  opened  again,  and  he  turned 
with  a  start  to  face  Nanine. 

"What  are  you  jumping  for?"  she  laughed,  her 
broad  Breton  face  wrinkling  curiously  like  one  of  her 
native  russet  apples. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  snarled,  furious  at  being 
interrupted.  "I  thought  you  were  gone." 

"You  did,  did  you  ?"  she  asked  suspiciously.  "What 
difference  would  it  make  to  you?  I  came  back  when 
the  young  Colonel  and  his  wife  arrived,  I'm  needed." 

"But  you're  not  needed  here,"  the  man's  voice  was 
shaking  with  impatience  and  anger.  He  had  borne 
the  insolence  of  this  Breton  peasant  woman  long 

191 


192  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

enough.  Nanine,  however,  was  impervious  to  his 
dislike. 

"Madame  wants  you  to  take  some  tea  and  biscuits 
to  the  Colonel's  wife,"  she  said  stolidly,  and  Antoine, 
with  a  scowl,  turned  back  to  the  table. 

There  was  so  little  time.  Through  the  window  he 
could  see  the  red  tip  of  the  General's  cigar  moving 
back  and  forth  as  his  steps  carried  him  nearer  the 
house. 

"I  can't  go  now,  I'm  busy,"  he  said. 

Nanine  put  her  hands  on  her  heavy  hips  and  stood 
facing  him  insolently. 

"Is  the  General  talking,  or  the  butler?"  she  mocked. 

"Don't  be  impertinent,"  Antoine's  brow  darkened, 
"it's  your  work !" 

"My  work!"  sneered  the  old  woman.  "It  is  my 
work  to  clean  up  about  the  house.  What  are  you 
bothering  in  here  for  anyway?"  and  her  small  eyes 
narrowed  suspiciously. 

It  did  not  suit  Von  Pfaffen's  plans  to  have  her 
ill-will  just  now.  She  must  be  cajoled. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  more  graciously,  "if  you  take 
up  the  tea  and  biscuits,  I'll  give  you  two  francs." 

"Two  francs !  H'm !"  Nanine's  scorn  was  un 
bounded. 

"Five  francs,"  he  bargained. 

Nanine  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
Five  francs  was  five  francs  in  these  hard  times.  It 
might  pay  to  be  good-natured. 

"Well  then,"  she  mumbled  grudgingly.  "I'll  do 
it ;  five  francs  and  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  for  Jacques." 

The  man  dived  into  his  pocket  hurriedly. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  193 

"There's  your  money,"  he  said  thrusting  it  into 
her  hand.  "I'll  get  you  the  wine  later.  Run  along, 
run  along  now,  it  is  late,"  and  he  urged  her  toward 
the  door,  his  eyes  on  the  window  and  the  ever-nearing 
red  spark  of  the  General's  cigar. 

Nanine  shook  his  hand  from  her  arm. 

"Don't  be  pushing  me,"  she  grumbled,  "I'll  go 
fast  enough,"  but  Von  Pfaffen  fairly  shoved  her 
through  the  door,  and  shutting  it  tightly  after  her, 
hurried  back  to  the  table. 

Once  more,  he  searched  among  the  maps  and  scat 
tered  papers.  All  these  weeks  spent  here  in  this 
menial  position  must  not  be  wasted.  This  paper  was 
the  crowning  point  of  his  work,  it  must  be  found,  but 
the  sound  of  the  General's  step  on  the  terrace,  sent 
him  to  the  fireplace,  where,  his  shoulders  once  more 
stooping  in  the  meekness  of  the  servant,  he  busied 
himself  with  the  dying  embers. 

As  the  General  came  through  the  window,  he 
glanced  hastily  from  the  man  by  the  grate  to  the 
scattered  papers  on  the  table. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  to  bed,"  he  said  sharply. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  answered  the  man,  turning  to  him 
mildly.  "I  have  been  waiting  to  let  the  Colonel  out, 
I  don't  like  leaving  the  doors  unlatched  these  nights." 

The  man  looked  so  humble,  so  harmless,  as  he  rose 
and  faced  him,  the  sagging  lines  of  his  thin  face  were 
so  pitiful,  that  the  General  was  ashamed  of  his 
suspicions. 

"I  suppose,  Antoine,"  he  said  kindly,  going  over 
to  the  table  and  beginning  to  gather  the  papers  to 
gether,  "you  regret  not  being  at  the  front?" 


194  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

The  man's  eyes  sparkled  a  moment,  as  they  rested 
on  the  General's  bent  head. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  with  a  meaning  of  his 
own,  "but  in  serving  you,  I  am  serving  my  country." 

This  was  a  sentiment  the  old  soldier  could  appre 
ciate.  How  loyal  all  these  men  were,  he  thought.  It 
was  true,  one  could  serve  one's  country  in  being  of 
service  to  those  who  could  give  their  blood  for  her. 

"It  must  be  hard  for  a  patriot  like  you,"  he  said, 
beginning  to  roll  up  his  maps,  "not  to  be  engaged  in 
active  service." 

The  man  dropped  his  eyes  discreetly. 

"It  is,  Monsieur,"  he  said  quietly,  "but  at  present 
I  can  only  watch  and  wait." 

"Our  cause  must  not  fail,  Antoine,"  said  the  Gen 
eral  as  he  fastened  the  straps  of  his  map  case,  and 
the  man  answered  vehemently. 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  saying  to  myself,  Mon 
sieur." 

The  words  had  such  an  earnest  ring  to  them,  that 
the  General  looked  up  curiously. 

"You  have  been  in  the  army,  Antoine?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  when  I  was  younger.  I  hope  to 
serve  my  country  soon  again." 

The  other  sighed.  At  the  rate  France  was  needing 
men,  age  would  soon  be  no  barrier. 

"The  time  may  come  before  you  expect,  Antoine," 
he  said. 

The  man's  eyes  sparkled  again,  and  a  curious  smile 
played  about  his  thin  lips. 

"I  am  patiently  awaiting  that  opportunity,  Mon 
sieur,"  he  replied. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  195 

The  General  looked  at  him  with  approval. 

"I  admire  your  patriotism,  Antoine,"  he  said,  and 
the  man  bent  in  his  slight,  servile  bow,  as  he  answered : 

"I  shall  endeavor  to  live  up  to  it,  Monsieur." 

His  master  gathered  the  map  cases  and  turned  to 
the  door. 

"Well,"  he  said  a  little  sadly,  "France  may  need 
you  before  the  war  is  over." 

Von  Pfaffen  smiled  ruefully. 

"I  hope  not,  Monsieur,"  he  said,  and  then  added 
hastily,  "that  is — I  trust  it  will  not  be  necessary." 

"Well,"  said  the  General,  turning  to  the  door,  "see 
that  the  lights  are  down.  Good-night,"  and  with  the 
map  case  carefully  under  his  arm,  he  left  the  room. 

Von  Pfaffen  stood  watching  him  go,  his  eyes  fixed 
covetously  on  the  packet  he  carried.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously  and  came 
back  to  the  table,  but  after  another  fruitless  look,  he 
decided  that  what  he  was  in  search  of  was  out  of  his 
reach  for  the  time  being.  How  to  get  it,  that  was 
the  problem,  for  get  it  he  must.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  thinking,  then  carefully  locking  the  windows, 
he  turned  out  the  lights  and  went  slowly  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MADAME,  all  kindness  and  solicitude,  showed  Marie 
to  her  room.  Everything  she  could,  she  did  to  make 
the  girl  forget  the  sting  of  Paulette's  words.  She 
insisted  upon  her  tasting  the  tea  and  biscuits  which 
old  Nanine  brought,  although  Marie  could  scarcely 
swallow.  She  helped  her  out  of  her  dusty  traveling 
dress  into  a  loose  robe,  and  while  Nanine  brushed  out 
the  long,  golden  hair  and  plaited  it  loosely  for  her, 
Madame  talked  of  the  trip  from  Paris,  asked  regard 
ing  their  mutual  friends,  and  spoke  of  their  own 
affairs. 

Marie  recognized  and  appreciated  her  kindness, 
knowing  that  she  was  trying  to  give  her  an  oppor 
tunity  to  regain  her  composure,  but  she  had  to  bite 
her  lips  till  they  almost  bled,  to  refrain  from  giving 
way  to  her  emotion. 

When  Nanine  had  tied  the  long  plaits  with  ribbons 
and  hung  up  Marie's  clothes,  she  took  the  almost  un 
touched  tray  and  courtesied  good-night. 

After  she  had  left,  Madame  kissed  the  girl  tenderly. 

"Sleep  well,  my  daughter,"  she  said,  "we  must  help 
one  another  in  whatever  may  come." 

Marie's  eyes  overflowed,  and  for  a  moment  she 
clung  to  the  older  woman  desperately. 

"Love  me,"  she  whispered,  "I  want  you  to  love  me 
in  spite  of  anything,  and  oh,  please  remember  I  have 
never  known  a  mother  of  my  own !" 

196 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  197 

Madame  soothed  her. 

"Gerome  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  dear,"  she  said. 
"I  must  say  good-night  to  my  boy,  too,"  and  with  a 
parting  kiss,  she  left  her. 

Marie  stood  a  moment  gazing  about  the  large,  old- 
fashioned  room — the  great  bed  with  its  sombre  dra 
peries  of  faded  blue,  the  heavy  black  walnut  dresser, 
in  the  tall  mirror  of  which  the  two  candles,  in  their 
silver  sconces,  reflected  her  own  tear-stained  face,  the 
small  white  stove  with  a  vase  of  flowers  standing  on 
its  cold  top,  the  long  blue  curtains  which  Nanine  had 
carefully  pulled  across  the  windows.  It  was  very 
stately,  but  very  cold,  and  Marie  shivered  as  she 
looked  about  her. 

Gerome  had  brought  her  here  among  his  own  peo 
ple  for  protection,  to  insure  her  safety  and  comfort 
when  he  was  away.  But  almost  her  first  step  across 
the  threshold,  had  brought  her  face  to  face  with  all 
that  was  horrible  in  her  past.  What  a  plaything 
Fate  had  made  of  her,  first  to  hold  out  so  much  that 
was  wonderful  and  beautiful,  and  then — suddenly  it 
came  over  her  with  sickening  horror  what  it  would 
mean  if  this  man,  into  whose  eyes  she  had  looked  not 
more  than  an  hour  ago,  should  tell  what  he  knew. 

She  had  thought  herself  so  secure,  the  past  had 
seemed  utterly  obliterated,  and  here,  on  the  very 
brink  of  her  shelter,  that  past  had  reared  its  hideous 
head.  And  now,  when  she  had  all  the  world  to  lose ! 
If  he  should  tell !  If  he  should,  even  now,  be  talking 
to  Gerome  or  the  General!  She  almost  screamed 
aloud  with  the  terror  of  it. 

The  horror  and  shock  of  finding  herself  face  to 


198  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

face  with  the  man  whom  she  thought  had  gone  from 
her  life  forever,  convulsed  her  with  fear  so  terrible, 
as  almost  to  deprive  her  of  reason,  but  she  must 
think,  or  go  mad. 

Why  was  he  here  in  the  garb  of  a  servant  ?  Would 
it  suit  his  purpose  to  expose  her  or  to  try  to  force 
her  back  to  him?  He  was  in  disguise  here.  He  had 
refrained  from  recognizing  her  before  the  others. 
What  could  it  all  mean?  Had  he  failed  to  recognize 
her  because  he  feared  to?  Was  there  some  power  she 
might  have  over  him  now?  If  so,  how  could  she 
use  it? 

The  thought  of  facing  him,  of  living  under  the 
sane  roof,  was  agony.  In  her  bag  was  a  small  bottle 
of  chloral  which  the  doctor  had  given  her  to  quiet  her 
nerves  before  she  left  Paris.  With  shaking  fingers, 
she  rummaged  among  her  clothes  to  find  it.  But  sud 
denly  she  threw  the  bag  from  her.  A  quick  flutter 
at  her  heart  called  loudly  her  need  to  live.  With 
the  knowledge  that  she  must  go  on,  whatever  came, 
she  paced  the  floor  in  an  agony  of  suspense  and 
terror. 

When  Gerome  knocked,  she  could  scarcely  answer, 
her  voice  died  in  her  throat.  Did  he  know?  Had  he 
guessed?  Had  her  terror  shown  itself  too  plainly  in 
her  face? 

He  came  in  smiling,  and  as  she  looked  at  him,  her 
chin  trembled  like  an  unhappy  child's. 

"Sweetheart,"  her  husband  took  her  in  his  arms, 
"you  must  not  mind  Paulette."  So  he  thought  it 
was  Paulette's  words  that  hurt,  he  didn't  know,  oh, 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  199 

the  relief,  the  blessed  relief.  She  scarcely  heard  him, 
as  he  explained. 

"My  little  sister  and  Maurice  love  each  other  so 
very  much,  she  is  really  the  dearest  sister  in  the 
world.  Be  patient  with  her,  for  my  sake." 

Marie  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"When  you  made  me  your  wife,"  she  said,  "your 
people  became  my  people ;  your  ways,  my  ways ;  your 
country,  my  country !" 

He  held  her  close. 

"We  are  truly  one,  are  we  not,  ma  cherie?"  he 
whispered. 

Marie's  answer  was  passionately  earnest. 

"Forever  and  ever !"  she  cried. 

For  a  long  time  they  were  silent,  content  to  be  here 
with  one  another,  to  know  how  much  each  meant  to 
the  other. 

Presently  he  spoke. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  back  in  the  morning; 
you're  going  to  be  a  brave  little  woman,  aren't  you?" 

Marie  turned  away  from  him  with  a  half  sob. 

"Oh  Gerome,"  she  stammered,  "I — I  need  you — 
more  than  ever !" 

Something  in  her  voice,  in  the  flush  on  her  cheek 
as  she  turned  from  him,  startled  him.  He  put  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders  and  drew  her  face  close  to  his. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"There's  something — something  I've  been  waiting 
to  tell  you,"  she  whispered. 

Gerome  stared  at  her.  Her  cheeks  were  glowing 
with  the  flush  that  illumines  the  sky  at  dawn,  and  in 


200  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

her  deep  blue  eyes  shone  a  light  he  had  never  seen 
there  before. 

"Don't  you  know?"  she  asked,  "can't  you 
guess  ?" 

And  then,  in  a  blinding  flash,  he  understood. 

For  a  long  moment  they  stared  into  each  other's 
eyes,  a  happiness  too  great  for  words  transfiguring 
them.  The  world  that  was  bent  on  destroying  itself, 
did  not  exist  for  them.  It  was  as  though  God  had 
only  just  spoken  the  words,  "let  there  be  light!" 
With  just  such  wonder  and  awe  might  the  first  man 
have  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  first  woman  when 
she  had  told  him  the  miracle. 

Tenderly,  very  tenderly,  he  drew  her  into  his  arms. 

"Marie,  my  darling,"  he  whispered,  "is  it  true?" 

"Yes,"  she  breathed ;  then  fearfully,  "it  does  make 
you  happy?" 

He  led  her  to  the  couch  and  drew  her  down  beside 
him. 

"Now,  every  one  must  be  kind  to  you,  so  gentle 
with  you." 

Marie  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder. 

"You  understand  now  why  I  dread  to  have  you 
leave  me,"  she  moaned. 

"I'll  be  back  to-morrow !" 

"But  after  to-morrow "  and  she  began  to  weep 

bitterly. 

Miserably,  he  sat  and  held  her  close.  That  this 
should  come  now,  when  he  was  going,  perhaps  to  his 
death.  Perhaps  he  should  never  even  see  this  child  of 
his.  Well,  if  he  must  die,  it  would  be  in  such  a  man 
ner  that  a  son  of  his  would  remember  with  pride ! 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  201 

"When  1  knew  what  was  to  be,"  she  said,  staring 
straight  ahead  of  her,  "I  wanted  you  to  take  me  to 
your  home,  so  that  if  you  had  to  be  away  when 
our  baby  came,  I  could  still  have  the  care  and  protec 
tion  of  your  family,  but,"  and  the  memory  of  the 
sinister  face  that  had  looked  into  hers,  and  all  that 
it  meant,  sent  the  blood  from  her  lips,  "I'm  sorry, 
I'm  sorry !" 

Gerome  turned  to  her  in  wonder. 

"Sorry  you  came  here?"  he  asked.  "Have  Pau- 
lette's  words—' " 

"No,  not  Paulette,"  broke  in  Marie  hastily.  "She 
does  not  really  mean  to  be  unkind.  It  is  something 
else!  I — I  can't  explain,  but — I'm  afraid — I'm 
afraid!" 

Gerome  drew  her  close  to  him  and  gently  smoothed 
her  hair. 

It  was  natural,  he  thought,  for  women  to  be  fright 
ened  at  such  a  time,  and  Marie  was  so  young,  so  inex 
perienced. 

"Bien  aimee"  he  whispered,  "how  happy  we  are 
going  to  be.  Our  lives  are  going  to  be  so  perfectly 
attuned  to  one  another,  that  between  us  there  can  be 
nothing  but  harmony !" 

She  was  sobbing  afresh. 

"But  you  are  going  away  from  me." 

"Only  for  a  few  hours,"  he  assured  her,  "and  in 
the  meantime  you  will  be  with  my  mother  and  sister. 
What  harm  can  come  to  you  here?" 

But  the  girl  was  almost  hysterical  now,  the  strain 
of  that  sudden  meeting  was  beginning  to  tell. 

"Gerome,"  she  sobbed  wildly,  "you  will  love  me 
always?  Nothing  can  make  you  change?" 


202  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Need  you  ask  that,  now?" 

But  she  scarcely  heard  him.  She  was  thinking  of 
Von  Pfaffen,  and  what  she  had  run  away  from  in 
Vienna.  She  was  dreading  the  time  when  he  would 
tell,  for  that  he  would  tell  when  it  suited  his  purpose, 
she  never  doubted,  nor  did  she  doubt  that  the  knowl 
edge  would  take  from  her  her  husband's  love. 

"Oh  Gerome,"  she  sobbed,  "if  anything  takes  you 
from  me !  Your  love  is  all  I  live  for !" 

Across  the  garden,  sounded  the  chiming  of  a  village 
clock.  Gerome  lifted  her  to  her  feet. 

"Kiss  me,  ma  cheric"  he  said.  "I  must  go.  Noth 
ing  can  ever  make  me  change.  Are  you  satisfied?" 

Marie  clung  to  him. 

"Let  me  go  to  the  gate  with  you.  I  want  to  be 
with  you  as  long  as  I  can,"  she  begged,  and  with  his 
arm  about  her,  Gerome  led  her  down  the  stair. 

The  lights  were  burning  dimly  in  the  entrance  hall, 
and  the  house  was  quiet.  He  slipped  into  his  motor 
coat  and  opened  the  hall  door.  The  moon  was  full 
now  and  the  garden  lay  peaceful  and  shining  under 
its  light. 

"Good-night,  my  darling,"  he  said  as  he  stooped 
and  kissed  her ;  "good-night,  my  boy's  mother !" 

Marie  clung  to  him. 

"Good-night,"  she  whispered,  "good-night,  my 
dearest !" 

She  stood  on  the  step  and  watched  him  go,  and 
when  the  sound  of  the  motor  was  no  longer  audible, 
she  closed  the  door  and  started  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"WAIT!" 

Out  of  the  shadows  came  the  whispered  command. 
Marie  staggered  back  against  the  wall  with  a  stifled 
scream  as  she  turned  and  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
man  she  abhorred.  He  had  thrown  off  all  semblance 
of  the  servant  and  stood  confronting  her  as  she  had 
known  him  in  Vienna.  In  a  swift  vision,  the  months 
she  had  spent  with  him  flashed  by  her.  That  night 
in  the  little  beer  hall  when  she  had  gone  home  with 
him ;  and  that  other  night  when  he  had  laughed  and 
told  her  just  how  little  she  had  meant  in  his  scheme 
of  things.  Why  had  he  followed  her?  He  had  not 
wanted  her  enough  to  keep  her  with  him  always. 

To  Von  Pfaffen,  the  sight  of  her  when  she  had 
thrown  back  her  veils,  had  been  anything  but  pleas 
ant.  He  had  known  for  several  days  that  the  Gen 
eral's  son  was  bringing  his  wife  to  the  chateau,  but 
he  was  not  prepared  for  the  overwhelming  surprise 
to  find  that  it  was  Marie.  He  saw  at  once  that  she 
recognized  him  and  his  first  fear  had  been  that  she 
would  betray  him.  But  the  moment  passed,  and  she 
made  no  sign.  He  realized  instantly  that  it  was  fear 
for  herself  that  had  kept  her  silent.  His  knowledge 
of  the  natural  timidity  of  her  nature,  coupled  with 
the  power  he  had  over  her,  led  him  to  think  out  a 
plan  that  might  put  her  presence  here  to  his  advan 
tage.  The  deadly  fear  he  saw  in  her  face,  as  he 

accosted  her  now,  pleased  him.     He  knew  that  she 

203 


204  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

was  his  to  do  with  as  he  liked.  She  would  prove  a 
useful  pawn  in  the  game  he  was  playing. 

He  reached  to  the  step  where  she  stood  and  seized 
her  hand  roughly. 

"Hush,"  he  whispered,  "you  will  not  betray  me !" 

Marie  leaned  away  from  him,  looking  into  his  eyes 
with  terror. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  breathed. 

"You  need  not  ask  that!  I'm  here  for  my  coun 
try  !"  he  said  proudly. 

The  meaning  of  his  words  dawned  upon  her  slowly. 
So  this  was  the  interpretation  of  all  those  strange 
papers  she  had  been  forbidden  to  touch  in  Vienna,  his 
secret  journeys,  his  mysterious  business!  He  was  a 
spy!  Why  hadn't  she  realized  this  and  screamed  it 
out  when  she  had  faced  him  those  few  hours  ago? 
They  would  have  taken  him  away  before  he  had  a 
chance  to  tell;  now  it  was  too  late. 

He  saw  that  she  understood,  and  bowed  coldly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  you?" 

"I "  she  faltered.  "I  am  a  daughter  of  the 

house !" 

"You?"  the  contempt  in  his  voice  cut  her  lihe  a 
lash,  and  blindly,  she  started  up  the  stair  again,  but 
his  fingers  grasped  her  wrist. 

"Wait!" 

She  turned  and  looked  down  at  him  where  he  stood 
on  the  step  below. 

"Would  you  be  so  welcome  if  they  knew,  do  you 
think  ?"  he  sneered. 

Marie  cowered  as  though  against  a  blow. 

"You — you  won't  tell!"  she  whispered. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  205 

Von  Pfaffen  went  on  fiercely. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  "there  is  something  I  must 
know,  something  for  which  I  have  taken  their  inso 
lence,  their  patronage,"  he  spat  out  the  words,  "but 
it  is  for  the  Fatherland !  Your  country,  and  mine ! 
You  must  help  me !" 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

"My  husband's  country  is  my  country,"  she  said, 
"his  people  are  my  people.  Let  me  pass !" 

Von  Pfaffen  dropped  her  hand. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  slowly.  "Then  to-morrow  I 
will  go  to  your  husband's  people,  your  people,  and 
tell  them  that  the  precious  wife  of  their  son  and 
brother "  but  the  girl  wheeled  in  terror : 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "you  won't  do  that,  you  can't !" 

He  smiled  sardonically. 

"I  can  and  will,"  he  said,  "unless  you  do  as  I  wish." 

Marie  turned  toward  him  piteously. 

"It— it  would  kill  him,"  she  pleaded.  "They  will 
disown  me."  Her  husband's  kiss  was  still  warm  on 
her  lips.  Would  he  love  her  if  he  knew?  Could  he? 

The  man  watched  her  closely.  He  knew  he  had 
struck  the  right  note.  Nothing  must  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  getting  the  information  he  sought. 

"How  proud  they  would  be  to  welcome  you  as  their 
daughter  if  they  knew !"  he  went  on  cruelly. 

Marie  shuddered. 

"You  won't  tell  them,"  she  whispered,  "you  can't !" 

His  brilliant  eyes  narrowed. 

"Will  you  do  what  I  ask?"  he  bargained,  and  as 
she  looked  into  his  face,  the  hard,  cold  face  of  the 
fanatic  who  would  sacrifice  everything,  including  him- 


206  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

self,  to  gain  his  end,  the  girl  knew  that  he  held  her 
in  his  grasp. 

"What  is  it  you  want  ?"  she  murmured  helplessly. 

With  a  swift  motion,  he  seized  her  wrist  again  and 
brought  his  face  close  to  hers. 

"Remember,"  and  he  almost  hissed  the  words,  "if 
you  betray  me,  I'll  give  the  proofs — I'll 

"What  do  you  want !"  she  asked  miserably,  "tell 
me,  what  do  you  want?" 

Vcn  Pfaffen  drew  her  down  and  away  from  the 
stair.  He  looked  about  carefully,  and  then,  sure  that 
they  were  secure  from  interruption  he  began : 

"There  is  to  be  an  important  conference  here  to 
morrow,"  he  said  in  quick,  short  tones,  his  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper,  "the  General  and  others. 
They  are  to  decide  the  time  and  place  where  an  attack 
is  to  be  launched ;  this  much  I  know.  You  must  get 
me  the  name  of  the  town — the  time." 

"I  can't — I  can't,"  broke  in  Marie,  horror  of  what 
he  was  asking  her,  searing  her  very  soul.  "I  can't 
betray  them,  my  husband's  people !" 

He  tightened  his  fingers  on  her  arm  till  the  pain 
was  almost  unendurable. 

"Would  they  think  twice  about  you  if  I  told  them 
who  you  are?  What  you  are?"  he  sneered. 

She  stared  into  his  eyes,  her  own  wide  with  terror. 

"It  would  mean  their  ruin,"  she  gasped,  "perhaps 
death  to  my  husband !  I  can't !  I  can't !" 

"It  means  disgrace  to  you,  and  the  death  of  his 
love  if  you  don't." 

Marie  twoke  away  from  his  hold  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  207 

"Oh  God,"  she  moaned,  "and  I  thought  the  door 
had  been  closed  on  that  part  of  my  life,  forever." 

Von  Pfaffen  was  impatient. 

"Quick,"  he  said,  "decide !  We  may  be  interrupted. 
Will  you?  Remember,  I  always  keep  my  word.  If 
you  get  this  information,  I  promise  in  the  name  of 
my  government,  no  one  shall  know  your  share  in  it. 
Will  you?  Will  you?" 

Her  slender  shoulders  shook  with  the  sobs  that  were 
breaking  her. 

"I  can't!    I  can't!" 

Was  she  going  to  fail  him  af ter*all  ? 

"Remember,"  his  voice  was  softer,  "it  is  your  coun 
try  asking  this,  your  own  country!" 

"My  country?"  Marie  raised  her  head.  "This  is 
my  country !" 

Von  Pfaffen  looked  at  her  with  hatred  in  his  eyes. 
This  weak  little  creature,  was  she  going  to  be  the 
stumbling-block  in  the  great  work  he  was  doing? 

"Do  you  realize  what  it  means  if  you  refuse!"  he 
asked  coldly. 

She  knew,  .alas !  she  knew  only  too  well  what  it 
would  mean,  not  only  to  her,  but  to  the  little  life  she 
carried  under  her  heart,  the  little,  new  life,  that  God 
himself  had  given  into  her  keeping.  It  might  cost 
that  as  well  as  the  love  of  its  father. 

"Let  me  think,"  she  gasped. 

Von  Pfaffen  was  quick  to  see  his  advantage. 

"Get  your  husband  to  tell  you,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"He  will.  Write  the  name  of  the  place  and  the  time 
where  the  attack  is  to  be  made,  on  a  piece  of  paper. 
Put  it  where  I  can  get  it !" 


208  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Marie  looked  about  her  wildly. 

"Where,  where?"  she  asked,  bewildered. 

The  man's  face  was  glowing  with  the  success  of  his 
plan. 

"You'll  find  a  place,"  he  told  her  eagerly,  "and  a 
way  to  let  me  know.  That  is  all.  I  promise  your 
secret  dies  with  me.  I  am  the  only  one  who  knows. 
Young  Franz  was  killed  at  the  Marne.  There  is  no 
one  else." 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  but  he  drew 
them  away  and  made  her  look  at  him. 

"I  can  trust  you?"  he  said,  his  eyes  narrow,  his 
thin  mouth  set  and  cruel,  "you  won't  play  me  false? 
If  you  do,  remember,  it  is  the  end  of  your  happiness 
forever !" 

"Yes,"  she  said  dully.    "I  know.    I'll— I'll  do  it!" 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  the  man  dropped  her  hands, 
and  after  a  moment,  she  turned  and  went  slowly  up 
the  stair.  Her  heart  seemed  dead  in  her  bosom,  her 
eyes  were  dry  and  burning.  She  clung  to  the  balus 
trade  with  the  dizziness  that  threatened  to  engulf  her. 

Von  Pfaffen  stood  and  watched  her  till  she  had  dis 
appeared,  then  he  turned  out  the  lights  and  softly 
left  the  hall,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  lean,  hard  face. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  clock  had  chimed  the  hour,  the  half,  and  the 
hour  again,  and  still  Marie  lay  tossing  with  mental 
anguish  under  the  heavy  blue  hangings  of  the  great 
bed.  What  terrible  thing  had  she  promised  to  do? 
Sell  her  husband's  honor  to  this  creature  who  had 
taken  her  own.  She  tried  to  look  at  every  side  of 
the  problem,  to  work  out  in  her  tortured  brain  just 
what  would  happen  if  she  defied  Von  Pfaffen.  She 
knew  he  would  not  hesitate  to  go  to  the  General  and 
brand  her.  She  knew  he  could  do  that  without  in 
criminating  himself.  He  was  diabolically  clever. 
She  could  see  the  kind  look  fade  from  the  General's 
eyes,  the  flush  on  Madame's  cheek.  She  could  hear 
Paulette  justifying  her  suspicions  of  her,  and  Gerome 
— she  crushed  her  knuckles  against  her  lips  till  her 
teeth  cut  into  them. 

To  see  the  lovelight  die  in  his  eyes,  contempt  taking 
its  place,  to  know  that  she  would  become  an  object 
of  loathing  to  him!  The  thought  was  so  terrible 
that  she  smothered  in  the  pillows  the  cry  she  could 
not  restrain.  She  would  rather  see  him  dead,  she 
thought,  and  know  that  he  had  died  loving  her,  be 
lieving  in  her  purity. 

What  was  country,  war,  people,  everything,  com 
pared  to  just  this  one  man  who  was  life  itself  and 
all  that  life  could  mean  to  her?  She  couldn't  give 

him  up.     She  couldn't  stand  by  and  let  his  love  and 

209 


210  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

faith  in  her  be  killed;  she  couldn't.  She  tossed  and 
turned  in  an  agony  of  despair. 

Her  imagination  swept  her  on  to  the  hour  of  her 
destiny,  to  the  time  when  Gerome's  child  should  be 
laid  in  her  arms.  If  it  were  a  son,  could  she  bear  to 
have  him  know  the  blot  on  his  mother's  life?  Suppose 
it  were  a  daughter,  could  she  bequeath  it  this  heritage 
of  shame? 

She  went  over,  day  by  day,  her  life  in  Vienna  since 
her  father's  death.  In  the  scorching  light  of  self- 
condemnation,  she  realized  that  she  need  not  have 
stayed  with  Von  Pfaffen  after  that  one  dreadful 
night.  She  could  have  run  away  then,  as  she  had 
later.  She  saw  herself  as  the  foolish,  inexperienced 
girl,  tired  of  teaching  stupid  children,  tired  of  sing 
ing  for  music  hall  habitues,  tired  of  scrimping  in 
order  to  live,  glad  of  the  haven  and  the  companion 
ship  of  one  of  her  own  class.  She  knew  now  that  she 
had  not  been  wholly  ignorant  of  Von  Pfaffen's  inten 
tions,  or  rather  lack  of  intentions,  toward  herself, 
that  she  had  simply  let  the  days  glide  by,  blinding 
herself  to  the  situation  and  hoping  against  hope  that 
he  would  marry  her. 

She  realized  now  that  the  story,  if  it  had  ended 
after  that  first  night  in  Von  Pfaffen's  apartment, 
would  not  have  been  so  beyond  pardon.  But  how 
could  she  ever  explain  those  long  months  with  him? 
She  knew  her  husband's  high  standard  of  morals.  She 
knew  his  intolerance  of  the  thing  that  she  had  done. 
She  knew  his  pride  in  the  ancient  family  name  that 
both  he  and  his  father  had  kept  unsullied.  And  now 
what  a  blot  on  that  honored  escutcheon  this  would  be ! 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"I  can't  bear  it !"  she  sobbed.    "I  can't  bear  it !" 

Then  Von  Pfaffen's  words  echoed  in  her  mind  like 
a  siren's  song. 

"I  promise  in  the  name  of  my  government,  that  no 
one  shall  know  of  your  share  in  this.  Your  secret  dies 
with  me !" 

Why  hadn't  he  been  killed  at  the  Marne  instead  of 
Franz  ?  Why  did  he  have  to  live  on  to  come  here  and 
torture  her?  Her  thoughts  were  distorted,  feverish. 
She  saw  herself  an  outcast,  thrust  into  the  streets, 
jeered  at  by  her  husband's  people,  despised  by 
Gerome,  her  child  taken  from  her,  nothing  left! 

"God,  oh,  dear  God,"  she  moaned,  "I  can't  let  them 
know,  I  can't !" 

France  was  her  country  only  by  adoption.  The 
people  meant  nothing  to  her,  their  aims,  nor  this 
great  struggle  in  which  they  were  involved.  Her 
own  country  meant  little  more.  Her  world  was 
Gerome.  If  he  were  killed  in  battle,  she  could  die  too, 
and  happily,  if  she  knew  that  he  had  gone  to  his  death 
loving  and  trusting  her.  But  the  thought  that  this 
knowledge  would  turn  him  from  her,  would  make  him 
curse  her,  living  or  dead,  was  too  much  for  her  to 
bear. 

She  hated  Von  Pfaffen  with  the  deadly  hatred 
of  the  woman  whose  betrayer  uses  his  power  over 
her  against  the  man  she  loves.  She  was  powerless  in 
his  grasp.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  steel  bars  of  the 
trap  he  had  set  for  her,  closing  against  her  tender 
flesh.  Through  the  darkness,  she  could  see  his  bril 
liant  eyes,  cold  and  cruel  as  they  had  looked  into  hers 
to-night.  She  knew  she  was  helpless,  she  could  only 


pray  that  Fate  might  be  kind,  might  find  some  avenue 
of  escape. 

The  down  coverlet  smothered  her.  She  tossed  it 
to  the  floor  and  slipping  her  bare  feet  onto  the 
polished  boards,  began  noiselessly  pacing  up  and 
down  the  long  room.  The  moonlight  came  between 
the  heavy  curtains  and  lay  in  a  white  streak  on  the 
floor.  Back  and  forth,  across  this,  she  swung  like  a 
prisoned  tigress,  her  nails  biting  into  the  flesh  of  her 
palms,  the  dry  sobs  catching  in  her  throat.  She  knew 
that  she  would  do  what  Von  Pfaffen  had  insisted  on 
her  doing.  She  knew  her  courage  was  not  great 
enough  to  take  the  consequences  if  she  did  not,  but 
she  loathed  and  hated  herself,  her  very  soul  cried  out 
against  what  she  was  going  to  do,  cried  out,  as  it 
beat  against  the  bars  her  tormentor  had  forged  for 
her. 

Suddenly,  through  the  stillness,  came  a  slight 
sound,  a  faint  rustling  on  the  thick  carpet  of  the 
corridor  outside  her  door. 

She  stopped  her  wild  pacing  to  listen.  There  it 
was  again.  Some  one  was  astir,  some  one,  whose 
stealthy,  furtive  movements,  plainly  told  of  their  wish 
to  be  unheard. 

She  slipped  into  the  loose  robe  Madame  had  left 
with  her,  and  softly  opened  the  door.  Down  the  cor 
ridor,  a  spot  of  light  from  an  electric  torch  danced 
uncertainly.  Presently  it  stopped  at  the  door  of  the 
General's  bedroom,  which  was  opened  cautiously.  The 
light  was  extinguished,  and  then  silence. 

Soundlessly  she  crept  along  the  corridor  toward 
the  door  which  had  been  left  purposely  ajar,  and 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

through  the  crack,  she  could  see  the  spot  of  light  flut 
tering  about  the  room.  It  rested  for  a  moment  on 
the  fine  face  of  the  old  soldier  lying  peacefully  asleep, 
then  shifted  to  the  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  over 
which  hung  his  coat.  A  hand  suddenly  sprang  out 
of  the  darkness  and  groped  through  the  pockets.  She 
heard  a  faint  rustle  of  paper  and  the  light  was  ex 
tinguished  again. 

She  had  only  just  time  to  slip  back  and  flatten  her 
self  against  the  wall,  when  a  man  came  out  and  softly 
closed  the  door  after  him. 

She  watched  the  light  winking  on  and  off,  as  he 
went  down  the  stair  and  across  the  hall,  and  then 
noiselessly,  she  started  to  follow. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  great  stairway  took  a  wide  turn  at  a  sort  of 
landing  about  halfway  down,  from  where  the  whole 
length  of  the  hall  could  be  seen,  as  well  as  the  rooms 
opening  upon  the  corridor  above.  Here  Marie  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  watched  the  light  as  it  crossed  the 
hallway. 

On  the  left,  the  double  doors  of  the  great  dining- 
room  were  slightly  ajar,  and  through  these  it  dis 
appeared,  leaving  the  hall  in  darkness  save  for  the 
moonlight  that  came  through  the  tall  windows. 
Without  further  thought,  she  hurried  down  the  stair 
and  after  the  dark  figure.  As  she  reached  the  dining- 
room,  the  light  had  just  disappeared  through  the 
green  baize  swinging-door  that  led  into  the  butler's 
pantry,  and  holding  her  robe  close  about  her,  the  girl 
followed. 

The  dining-room  looked  very  cold  and  vast  in  the 
pale  moonlight,  the  massive  chairs  and  heavy  carved 
table  sending  black  shadows  along  the  polished  floor. 
From  around  the  edges  of  the  swinging-door  came 
a  faint  light.  Cautiously,  she  put  her  hand  against 
the  panel  and  pushed  the  door  open  the  merest  trifle. 
Through  the  crack  she  could  see  a  man  at  the  serving- 
table  which  stood  against  the  wall.  In  the  faint  light 
of  a  candle  which  he  had  evidently  just  lit,  she  recog 
nized  Von  Pfaffen. 

In  what  fresh  evil  was  he  engaged?  What  was  it 
214 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  215 

he  had  taken  from  the  General's  room?  She  might 
be  of  use  after  all.  Apparently  satisfied  that  he  was 
alone,  he  slipped  a  paper  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
spreading  it  on  the  table  began  making  a  tracing. 

She  could  not  see  what  this  was.  She  could  only 
distinguish  its  blue  cover  and  that  it  appeared  to  be 
some  sort  of  a  map. 

He  worked  quickly,  and  with  the  ease  born  of  long 
experience. 

Wondering,  she  watched  as  he  rolled  the  thin  tissue 
paper  copy  he  had  made,  in  a  tiny  tube  and  thrust  it 
into  what  appeared  to  be  a  quill.  Then  she  saw  him 
stoop  and  pick  up  a  basket  from  the  floor.  Opening 
the  wicket,  he  took  out  a  gray  pigeon,  which  fluttered 
for  a  moment  in  his  hands.  Carefully,  he  fastened 
the  quill  to  its  leg,  his  head  bent  low  over  the  task. 

She  must  see  more.  Cautiously  her  hand  pressed 
the  door,  but  the  hinge  creaked  faintly  under  her 
light  touch,  and  at  the  sound  he  hastily  thrust  the 
pigeon  back  into  the  basket,  secured  the  wicket,  and 
blew  out  the  candle.  Under  cover  of  the  darkness 
the  girl  pushed  the  door  wide.  This  time  the  hinge 
made  no  sound,  and  after  a  tense  moment,  Von 
Pfaffen  cautiously  turned  on  his  electric  torch.  The 
little  stream  of  light  struck  full  in  her  face. 

"You !"  he  swore  hoarsely. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  demanded. 

He  scowled  at  her.  He  had  thought  her  safely  out 
of  the  way  for  the  night. 

"My  duty !"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 

She  took  a  step  backward,  but  the  man  grasped  her 
by  the  arm,  and  drew  her  into  the  little  room.  As  the 


216  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

green  baize  door  swung  shut  after  them,  with  a  quick 
movement,  he  latched  it  securely. 

"You  will  be  silent,"  he  hissed. 

She  held  away  from  him  defiantly. 

"Suppose  I  were  to  call  the  General?" 

"He  would  have  me  shot !"  his  voice  was  coldly  in 
different.  "But  before  I  died,  by  God,  I'd  tell  a  story 
that  would  send  you  into  the  streets  to-night." 

Marie  gasped  and  he  clutched  her  arm  tighter. 

"If  you  make  a  sound,"  he  said,  "I  shall  go  to  the 
General  now,  and  tell  him  what  you  are." 

For  a  moment,  she  had  a  wild  thought  of  running 
swiftly  back  the  way  she  had  come,  of  awakening  the 
General,  of  facing  the  consequences. 

"But  if  I  give  the  alarm?"  she  asked,  almost  under 
her  breath. 

He  shot  a  quick  look  at  her,  sure  of  his  quarry. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  that!  You  would  not  dare!" 
he  said,  looking  at  her  evilly. 

Marie  subsided.    She  could  not.    He  was  right. 

"Is — is  it  all  so  important?"  she  faltered. 

Was  the  woman  mad?  Couldn't  she  be  made  to 
understand  ? 

"Important?"  His  voice  was  hoarsely  eager.  "If 
I  get  this  safely  over,  it  will  mean  thousands,  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  to  me,  it  will  mean  the  Cross,  it 
will  mean  glory  to  my  country.  Why,  the  Fate  of 
France  might  depend  upon  it !" 

Marie  stared  at  him,  wide-eyed. 

"The  Fate  of  France,"  she  echoed.  The  Fate  of 
France  was  (Jerome's  fate,  was  hers!  The  Fate  of 
France ! 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  217 

Von  Pfaffen  held  up  the  long  blue  envelope. 

"This  must  be  returned,"  he  said;  "no  one  must 
suspect  that  it  has  been  tampered  with."  A  plan  was 
forming  itself  in  his  mind.  It  was  the  inspiration  of 
the  moment,  and  his  cruel  nature  gloated  over  it.  He 
regarded  her  with  a  sardonic  smile,  as  he  relit  the 
candle.  "You  have  come  upon  me  very  opportunely," 
he  said. 

She  did  not  hear  him,  she  was  staring  into  vacancy, 
his  phrase,  the  "Fate  of  France,"  echoing  over  and 
over  in  her  mind. 

Von  Pfaffen  drew  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I  cannot  take  this  back,"  he  said.  "If  I  were  dis 
covered,  I  could  not  complete  my  work  here.  You 
must  do  it,"  his  words  cut  across  her  brain  clearly, 
definitely.  She  shrank  away  from  him,  terrified. 

"I!"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  you,"  went  on  her  tormentor,  "at  once.  He 
sleeps  soundly.  On  a  chair  by  his  bed,  hangs  his  coat. 
You  must  slip  this  into  the  left  inside  pocket.  Do 
this,"  there  was  a  deep  meaning  in  his  voice,  "and 
we  are  both  safe !" 

"My  God,"  she  whispered,  "I  can't  do  it.  I,  an 
alien  here,  under  their  roof  for  the  first  night!  If 
he  waked  and  found  me,  what  could  I  say  to  clear 
myself?  I  can't!" 

Von  Pfaffen's  eyes  were  almost  hypnotic  as  they 
glittered  in  the  dim  light. 

"You  will  take  the  paper  back!"  he  repeated  dis 
tinctly. 

"I  cannot!" 


218  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"You  must !"  his  face  was  very  close  to  hers  in  the 
little  pool  of  yellow  light. 

She  wrung  her  hands.  In  her  fancy,  she  seemed 
like  the  gray  pigeon  she  had  seen  fluttering  in  his 
grasp.  She  was  just  as  helpless. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  she  kept  re 
peating  over  and  over. 

Von  Pfaffen  kept  his  eyes  on  hers. 

"Do  what  I  say,"  he  answered;  "and  to-morrow, 
after  you  have  given  me  the  information  that  will 
cap  this,  I  have  sworn  to  you,  and  I  shall  keep  my 
word,  I  go  out  of  your  lif e  forever !" 

She  was  groping  desperately  in  her  mind  for  some 
way  out  of  it,  something  she  could  do  to  save  the 
"Fate  of  France." 

% 

Von  Pfaffen  turned  and  went  back  to  the  table. 

"I'll  arrange  this  again  carefully,"  he  said,  "no 
one  must  suspect." 

As  he  bent  over  his  task,  Marie's  eyes  fell  on  the 
wicker  basket  in  the  shadow.  Through  the  bars,  pro 
truded  the  edge  of  the  little  tube  fastened  to  the 
bird's  leg.  She  looked  at  it  fascinated,  a  daring  pos 
sibility  shaping  itself  in  her  mind.  The  Fate  of 
France !  She  glanced  swiftly  from  the  basket  to  the 
man  silhouetted  against  the  light,  her  heart  beating 
wildly. 

It  was  the  work  of  an  instant  to  insert  her  hand 
in  the  basket,  extract  the  tracing  from  the  quill  and 
hide  it  in  her  bosom. 

The  next  moment,  he  had  finished  his  work,  and 
was  examing  it  critically  before  the  light. 

"There,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  her  again,  "I 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  219 

think  now,  even  to  the  eyes  of  the  old  fox,  it  will  seem 
untampered  with." 

She  held  out  a  trembling  hand. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  she  cried  hurriedly.  "Give  it  to 
me." 

"You  have  grown  most  anxious  suddenly!"  Von 
Pf affen  eyed  her  suspiciously. 

The  girl  bit  her  lip.  She  was  in  an  agony  of  sus 
pense  lest  he  should  discover  the  absence  of  the  trac 
ing  before  she  could  have  time  to  return  the  original. 

"I  want  to  get  it  over  with,"  she  said  desperately. 

"If  you  play  me  false  now,"  his  face  was  terrifying, 
"I  swear  that  there  will  be  nothing  I  won't  do  to  make 
you  suffer !" 

"Give  me  the  paper,"  she  begged. 

Von  Pfaffen  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  with  a  mock 
ing  smile.  He  thought  he  understood  her  sudden 
eagerness. 

"It  won't  do  to  run  any  risk.  First  my  copy  must 
be  off!" 

"But  every  moment  is  precious,"  pleaded  Marie, 
fearful  of  discovery,  "some  one  may  waken." 

The  man  stooped  and  picked  up  the  basket. 

"You  are  right,"  he  agreed.  "Do  you  know  what 
this  paper  is?  It  is  the  exact  location  of  their  bat 
teries.  Our  aviators  have  searched  and  searched,  but 
they  have  masked  them  so  damn  well,  we  couldn't  find 
them.  But  I've  got  it!"  In  his  triumph,  his  voice 
rose  and  his  eyes  sparkled  wildly. 

Would  he  never  have  done?  She  felt  that  her 
nerves  would  snap  under  the  strain. 

"Oh,  hurry,  hurry,"  she  breathed. 


220  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Von  Pfaffen  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  softly. 
She  followed  close  at  his  heels  as  he  went  noise 
lessly  out  through  the  long  dining-room  and  across 
the  hall.  Carefully  he  opened  the  great  door,  and, 
seizing  her  hand,  led  her  out  onto  the  terrace. 
Then  he  opened  the  little  wicket  and  lifted  the  cage 
above  his  head. 

For  a  moment  they  waited.  There  was  a  faint 
rustle.  The  bird  had  sensed  its  freedom.  It  stood 
poised  a  moment  at  the  opened  cage  door,  then  with 
a  swift  whirr,  it  was  out,  soaring  upward  and  away 
through  the  moonlight. 

Von  Pfaffen,  his  square  shoulders  straight,  his  lean 
face  lifted  to  watch  the  flight,  raised  his  hand  in  a 
military  salute. 

"Take  my  greetings  to  the  Fatherland,"  he  cried 
softly,  and  Marie,  her  hands  pressed  tightly  against 
her  bosom,  where  the  paper  lay  hidden,  breathed  a 
prayer  for  France. 

When  the  bird  had  disappeared,  he  turned  and  led 
her  back  into  the  hall,  softly  closing  the  door  after 
them. 

"Now  your  work,"  he  said  as  he  handed  her  the 
blue  envelope,  "here  is  the  paper.  Remember  to  put 
it  in  the  left  inside  pocket,  and  for  God's  sake,  be 
careful !" 

She  took  it  eagerly  and  started  toward  the  stair. 

Von  Pfaffen  handed  her  the  little  torch. 

"Take  this,"  he  said,  and  with  the  light  held  in  her 
hand,  she  went  up  the  broad  stair. 

He  stood  below  watching  her  until  she  disappeared 
into  the  General's  room.  After  what  seemed  an  age 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

to  the  man  below,  she  came  out  again  noiselessly  and 
closed  the  door  after  her.  Her  bare  feet  made  no 
sound  on  the  thick  carpet.  Breathlessly,  she  leaned 
against  the  railing.  Up  through  the  darkness,  came 
Von  Pfaffen's  hoarse  whisper. 

"All  right?" 

Her  answer  floated  down  to  him,  "yes !" 

With  a  muttered  exclamation,  he  turned  and  left 
the  hall.  Quiet  settled  down  once  more  over  the  house. 

Marie  crept  softly  into  her  own  room,  and  lit  one 
of  the  tall  candles.  Then  she  locked  and  barred  the 
door  and  stood  motionless,  listening,  before  the  great 
walnut  dresser.  She  fumbled  in  the  bosom  of  her  robe 
and  brought  out  the  little  tracing.  Her  lips  were 
dry,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  cheeks  scorching.  Dimly  in 
the  mirror  she  could  see  herself  outlined  partly  by  the 
faint  moonlight,  partly  by  the  flickering  candle. 

With  a  strangled  sob,  she  held  the  paper  to  the 
flame.  It  coiled  quickly  into  a  tiny  black  ribbon  and 
lay  a  pinch  of  ashes  in  her  hand,  then  she  blew  out  the 
candle  and  crept  into  the  great  bed  under  the  shadow 
of  the  heavy  blue  curtain. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

UP  and  down,  up  and  down,  outside  the  long  study 
windows  marched  a  sentry.  Outside  the  great  gate 
stood  another.  Even  the  house  door  was  guarded. 

Angele,  her  round  arms  bare,  a  great  apron  tied 
about  her,  her  feet  in  wooden  sabots,  was  busy  scrub 
bing  the  kitchen  floor  of  the  gate  house  when  the  first 
company  arrived.  Soldiers  were  no  new  sight  to  the 
girl  by  now,  but  so  many  here,  what  could  it  mean? 
She  dried  her  hands  and  clattered  out  to  open  the 
gates. 

"Keep  them  open,  my  girl,"  smiled  the  Captain. 
"Others  are  coming,"  and  leaving  her  standing  round- 
eyed  and  open-mouthed,  he  took  his  men  and  stationed 
them  about  the  place. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked  one  of  them. 

The  young  soldier  left  to  guard  the  gate,  smiled 
at  her  as  he  shouldered  his  gun  and  began  pacing  up 
and  down,  but  his  Captain  was  still  within  ear-shot 
and  so  he  made  no  answer. 

The  girl  turned  and  hurried  back  into  the  house. 

"Ma  mere"  she  called  (Nanine  was  the  only 
mother  she  had  ever  known)  "ma  mere,  war  has  come 
even  into  the  chateau." 

"Eh,"  wheezed  the  old  woman,  coming  heavily  down 
the  stair.  "What  are  you  saying?"  Angele  bade  her 
look  out  of  the  window.  By  now,  several  automobiles 
had  arrived  and  were  dislodging  their  passengers  at 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  223 

the  great  door,  care-worn  looking  men  for  the  most 
part,  grizzled  of  hair  and  mustache,  their  heavy  army 
coats  dusty  and  mud-splashed. 

Nanine  put  her  head,  in  its  broad  Breton  cap,  out 
of  the  door,  only  to  find  herself  facing  a  sentry  stand 
ing  there. 

"Orders  are  to  stay  indoors  this  morning,  bonne 
femme,"  he  said  cheerily. 

If  anyone  but  a  French  soldier  had  dared  to  bar 
her  way,  a  storm  would  have  broken  about  his  head, 
but  to  Nanine,  the  horizon  blue  of  a  poilu's  uniform, 
was  never  to  be  gainsaid  in  anything. 

"Eh  bien,  mon  gosse,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  stay  in  all 
week!"  she  answered. 

The  man  grinned  and  resumed  his  sentry-go. 

The  purring  motors  brought  Marie  to  her  window. 
She  had  tossed  and  turned  through  the  dark  hours, 
dreading  the  task  that  was  before  her.  Her  mind 
whirled  trying  to  plan  a  way  that  might  satisfy  Von 
Pf  affen  and  yet  not  betray  her  husband's  cause.  But 
like  a  wild  bird,  she  beat  against  her  prison  bars, 
knowing  there  was  no  way  out. 

As  she  parted  the  curtains  and  looked  out  on  the 
driveway,  Gerome  was  just  stepping  from  a  motor 
car.  There  were  three  other  officers  with  him,  a  tall 
thin  man  with  a  long  nose  and  a  heavy  gray  mus 
tache,  and  a  fat,  red-faced  man  who  wore  a  general's 
stars.  The  third,  she  could  not  see,  his  face  was  so 
muffled  in  his  coat  collar,  although  the  day,  early  as 
it  was,  was  quite  warm.  Another  motor,  whose  occu 
pants  had  evidently  already  entered  the  house,  was 
just  turning  from  the  door. 


224  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

She  pushed  the  curtains  back  and  stood  looking  out 
into  the  sunshine.  How  peaceful  everything  looked, 
and  yet  in  the  room  below  her,  men  were  planning 
the  best  way  to  surprise  and  kill  thousands  of  their 
fellow  men,  and  here  was  she,  her  brain  whirling,  try 
ing  to  devise  a  means  to  discover  how  they  were  to 
accomplish  it. 

She  slipped  quickly  into  her  clothes  and  sat  down 
again  by  the  window  to  wait  until  the  conference 
should  be  over.  She  knew  that  Gerome  would  come 
to  her  then.  Every  nerve  was  strained  with  a  har 
rowing  expectancy.  It  was  as  though  she  awaited 
her  execution. 

The  little  gilt  clock  on  her  dressing-table,  cheerily 
ticked  out  the  minutes  as  though  they  had  been  filled 
with  joy,  instead  of  agony.  The  sun  sparkled  and 
glittered  on  the  dew-wet  leaves  as  brilliantly  as 
though  the  whole  world  on  which  it  shone  was  as 
peaceful  as  the  chateau  garden.  A  robin  was  fluting 
happily.  But  up  and  down,  before  the  door  and  be 
fore  the  great  gate,  paced  the  sentries,  and  from  the 
distant  horizon  came  the  ever-present  rumbling  of 
the  guns. 

She  sat  staring  at  the  thin  lace  curtains  fluttering 
gently  in  the  breeze,  under  the  faded  blue  ones.  What 
was  the  day  to  bring  her,  she  wondered  ? 

There  was  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door.  She  turned 
with  a  start.  In  answer  to  her  faint,  "Entrez," 
Madame  came  in. 

"You  are  awake,  dear?"  she  said  gently.  "I  came 
to  see.  The  General  is  having  a  very  important  meet 
ing  in  his  study  and  has  asked  me  not  to  have  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  225 

servants  come  into  the  house.  Will  you  mind  waiting 
for  your  breakfast?" 

Marie  had  risen  to  greet  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  hastily,  "I  don't  think  I  shall 
want  anything  to  eat,"  and  her  hands  trembled  at 
her  throat. 

Madame  led  her  back  to  the  chair  and  made  her 
sit  down. 

"We  must  all  be  brave,"  she  said  gently. 

As  she  spoke,  they  could  hear  the  door  of  the  Gen 
eral's  study  opening  and  a  murmur  of  men's  voices. 

Madame  listened  attentively  for  a  moment. 

"The  conference  is  over,"  she  said,  "pray  God  what 
they  have  decided  may  be  successful." 

Marie  turned  miserably  back  to  the  window.  The 
time  for  her  task  was  drawing  nearer.  There  might 
be  some  way  out  of  it.  There  must  be. 

"I'll  order  coffee  now,"  said  Madame.  "Try  to  be 
calm,  dear,  we  women  live  in  a  man's  world,"  and 
with  a  sigh,  she  left  her. 

Marie  watched  the  officers  come  out  and  get  into 
their  motors.  She  watched  the  General  standing  tall 
and  straight  in  the  sunshine,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
his  confreres.  Gerome's  voice  came  up  to  her,  as  he 
told  his  father  he  would  go  as  far  as  the  village  with 
them,  and  then  come  back,  and  she  knew  it  meant  he 
was  coming  back  to  her. 

She  watched  the  motors  go  down  the  driveway  and 
out  of  the  great  gates.  The  General  saluted  the  last 
man  as  he  left,  and  then  turned  back  into  the  house. 
The  little  band  of  soldiers  mustered  under  their  Cap 
tain  and  started  after  the  chugging  cars.  Angele 


226  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

pushed  the  heavy  gates  closed  after  them  and  clat 
tered  back  to  her  scrubbing,  and  as  the  sound  of  the 
motors  died  away  in  the  distance,  Marie  fell  on  her 
knees  by  the  bed. 

"Oh  God,"  she  prayed,  "help  me !    Help  me !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

As  the  General  strode  back  across  the  hall,  Madame 
came  down  the  stairs. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  asked.  "Is  the  conference 
over?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  seriously. 

"I  have  just  bade  them  good-bye,  Cecile;  we  have 
had  an  anxious  morning,  but  please  God,  it  will  result 
in  victory  for  France." 

Madame  smiled. 

"Is  that  all  I  am  to  hear,  my  husband?" 

"A  soldier's  wife  must  not  ask,"  he  said,  "what 
there  is  for  her  to  know  is  told  without  a  question." 

"And  I  am  content  that  you  know  best,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  tenderly. 

He  put  his  hands  on  ^r  shoulders.  For  a  moment 
they  stood  looking  inid  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  am  waiting  to  say  good-bye  to  Gerome,"  she 
said  at  last. 

Her  voice  was  calm  and  even,  her  clear  eyes  looked 
into  his  bravely,  unflinchingly.  These  two  had  lived 
together  so  long  that  the  spoken  word  was  unneces 
sary  to  convey  their  thoughts  to  one  another.  The 
absence  of  demonstration  in  sorrow  is  often  its  best 
indication  of  sincerity,  and  although  her  proud  face 
gave  no  sign,  he  knew  the  struggle  that  was  going 
on  in  her  breast.  He  knew  that  she  lived  only  for 
this  son  of  theirs,  a  son  who  was  worthy  of  the  pride 

227 


228  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

they  felt  in  him.  And  to-day,  he  was  to  march  away 
to  take  his  place  in  that  Armageddon  from  which  so 
few  returned,  or  returned  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
mock  the  splendid  manhood  that  had  been  theirs. 

"Cecile,"  he  said,  "I  understand!  We  can  only 
hope !  He  is  one  of  the  army,  and  the  army  is  France ! 
If  he  does  not  come  back  to  us,  then  he  will  have  died 
the  noblest  death  that  can  come  to  a  man !  He  will 
have  given  his  life  for  his  country !" 

She  smiled  bravely. 

"And  when  their  country  has  needed  them,"  she 
said,  "the  women  of  France  have  never  been  called 
upon  in  vain." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her,  the  fine  lift  of  her 
stately  head,  the  calm  poise  of  her  clear  eyes. 

"You  are  the  spirit  of  France  itself,"  he  said; 
"women  like  you  have  been  the  inspiration  in  every 
crisis  in  our  history !" 

Madame  sighed.  This  beautiful  life  of  theirs,  these 
years  of  happiness  together,  how  could  she  even  think 
of  so  bitter  an  ending  as  war  must  bring.  But  he 
must  not  be  disappointed  in  her.  She  must  be  what 
he  thought  her,  the  spirit  of  France  itself. 

"I  am  so  concerned  about  Marie,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment ;  "do  you  think  the  government  will  take  any 
action  because  of  her  being  an  alien  ?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "they  were  married  before  the 
war.  She  has  lived  in  Paris  now  over  a  year,  there 
is  no  cause  for  anxiety." 

The  girl's  sad  face  was  still  vividly  in  her  mother- 
in-law's  memory. 

"Still,"  she  said,  "I'm  glad  Gerome  brought  her 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  229 

here,  it  lessens  the  chance  of  her  being  embarrassed 
by  prying  officials." 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "we  won't  criticise  the  govern 
ment  for  taking  every  precaution  at  a  time  like  this." 

Madame  looked  up  the  stairs  toward  Marie's  room. 
With  a  woman's  intuition,  she  had  sensed  something 
of  the  struggle  going  on  in  the  girl's  soul;  with  the 
eyes  of  a  mother  she  had  laid  the  cause  at  one  door. 

"There  must  be  many  marriages  such  as  this,"  she 
said,  "and  how  sad  it  is  for  all  concerned,  for  although 
their  loyalty  may  be  unquestioned,  in  the  minds  of 
some  there  may  lurk  a  doubt." 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  "if  there  had  been  more  of 
these  international  marriages,  this  war  might  never 
have  occurred!" 

She  smiled  faintly.  She  was  accustomed  to  these 
Utopian  theories.  She  had  heard  him  work  out  to  his 
own  satisfaction  all  the  problems  of  humanity,  won 
dering  at  a  blundering  world  for  not  finding  the  solu 
tions  that  were  so  simple  to  him,  but  this  was  a  new 
subject. 

"Universal  peace  would  be  the  most  precious  gift 
God  could  bestow  on  his  people,"  she  said.  "How  will 
these  international  marriages  help  to  bring  it  about  ? 
War  not  only  tears  husband  and  wife  apart  by  death, 
but  by  allegiance  to  different  causes.  How  could  that 
be  overcome?" 

He  looked  at  her  seriously. 

"I  believe  that  our  sons  and  daughters  should  seek 
their  proper  mates  from  environments  far  removed 
from  one  another.  In  that  way,  the  best  of  civiliza 
tion  would  be  evenly  distributed.  The  best  blood,  the 


230  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

best  intellect,  the  best  culture.  Then  no  one  country 
could  believe  itself  to  have  a  monopoly.  There  would 
be  one  universal  language,  mutual  interest,  new  blood 
would  be  infused  into  decadent  veins,  new  vigor, 
strength,  mental  and  physical.  Political  boundaries 
would  be  meaningless,  political  differences  would  be 
impossible,  and  the  sword  would  be  sheathed  for 
ever  !" 

"This  is  a  strange  philosophy  for  a  soldier,"  she 
said  smilingly,  "one  whose  profession  is  arms !" 

"The  soldier  is  the  nation's  surgeon,"  he  said ;  "he 
tries  to  cut  away  the  evils  that  menace  its  existence, 
and  he  most  of  all  is  glad  when  his  work  is  finished. 
He  seldom  feels  the  hatred  and  rancor  that  is  so  com 
mon  to  the  civilian  who  fights  his  battles  over  a  dinner 
table/' ' 

Together  they  walked  to  the  window.  Up  and 
down  the  drive  the  tire  marks  of  the  recent  motors 
crossed  and  recrossed.  Low  down  on  the  distant 
horizon  hung  the  dark  form  of  an  observation  balloon. 
And  dull,  reverberating,  incessant,  muttered  the  guns. 

With  a  sigh  the  General  turned  from  the  window. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "there  are  some  im 
portant  papers  to  go  over  before  I  leave !" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

WHEN  Von  Pfaffen  came  into  the  salon,  the  cur 
tains  were  still  drawn  across  the  windows,  the  chairs 
still  awry,  and  on  the  little  escritoire  papers  lay 
scattered  about  as  they  had  been  left  the  night  before. 

Madame  had  obeyed  the  General's  orders  literally, 
and  the  servants  had  been  excluded  from  the  house 
while  the  conference  was  going  on. 

He  pushed  back  the  heavy  curtains  and  opened 
the  windows.  His  shoulders  squared  as  he  filled  his 
lungs  with  the  crisp  morning  air.  His  cloak  of 
humility  was  completely  cast  aside,  but  at  a  step  in 
the  hall,  he  turned  quickly,  again  the  servant. 

Marie  opened  the  door  softly.  As  she  saw  him,  her 
face  blanched.  She  stepped  back,  but  the  man 
stopped  her. 

"Shut  the  door,"  he  said  peremptorily,  and  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  she  did,  the  girl  obeyed  him. 

He  came  close  to  her,  his  lean  face  eagerly  alight. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "any  news?" 

"None !"  Marie  shrank  away  from  him.  "I  haven't 
seen  my  husband  yet." 

Von  Pfaffen's  lips  pulled  back  across  his  teeth  in 
an  oath,  and  the  girl  looked  up  at  him  piteously. 

"Why  couldn't  you  do  it  ?"  she  pleaded.  "It's  your 
work,  and  honorable,  I  suppose,  for  you." 

He  turned  on  her  fiercely. 

"How  could  I?"  he  snarled,  "with  a  guard  at  every 
door." 

231 


232  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Marie  looked  into  his  cold  eyes. 

"Have  you  no  mercy  ?  Was  not  last  night  enough 
to  ask  of  me?"  Her  memory  went  back  again  to 
those  dreadful  moments  at  the  General's  bedside. 
"Once  I  thought  he  was  awake,"  she  whispered,  "his 
eyes  staring  straight  at  me.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
prevent  myself  from  shrieking  aloud." 

Von  Pfaffen's  jaw  set,  a  little  muscle  in  his  cheek 
worked  nervously. 

"You're  not  going  to  fail  me  now?  You  haven't 
let  him  go  without  getting  me  that  information  ?" 

Marie  shuddered  under  the  hatred  in  his  eyes. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  hastily,  "he  has  only  gone  as  far 
as  the  village  with  the  other  officers.  He'll  be  back 
to  say  good-bye  to  me,"  and  then  she  added 
piteously,  "Must  I?  Must  I?" 

"There  is  no  other  way!"  Von  Pfaffen  clutched 
her  wrist  in  a  grip  of  iron.  "He  must  not  leave  be 
fore  you  know,"  he  said  almost  against  her  face ;  "do 
you  hear?  If  he  does,  and  this  information  which 
means  so  much  to  our  country — yes,"  as  she  tried  to 
pull  away,  "yours  as  well  as  mine — if  this  informa 
tion  slips  away  from  me,  I'll 

She  struggled  in  his  grasp. 

"Oh,  please,  please !"  she  pleaded,  but  he  went  on 
brutally : 

"I'll  fling  your  shame  in  every  face  I  meet.  I'll 
brand  you  as " 

"Please!   Please!" 

He  flung  her  hand  away  from  him. 

"See  then  that  you  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  I  give  you 
my  word  you  are  safe,  otherwise "  There  was  a 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  233 

step  on  the  gravel  outside.  "Hush,"  he  whispered, 
"here  he  comes,"  and  as  Gerome  stepped  through  the 
window,  Von  Pfaffen  relapsed  once  more  into  the 
manner  of  a  servant. 

"Good  morning,  Monsieur,"  he  said  softly. 

Gerome  smiled  into  his  wife's  white  face. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said. 

Von  Pfaffen  turned  to  Marie,  his  shoulders  stoop 
ing  with  the  meekness  of  Antoine,  his  eyes  blazing 
with  the  threat  he  held  for  her  if  she  failed  him. 

"Anything  more,  Madame  ?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  was  breathless.  Why  didn't  he  go,  v/hy 
couldn't  he  leave  her  alone? 

"No,"  she  said  desperately,  "only  go !" 

"Yes,  Madame,"  adding  with  deep  significance, 
"I  am  serving  luncheon  in  the  garden  to-day,"  and  he 
turned  and  left  the  room,  but  even  while  she  looked 
up  into  her  husband's  wondering  face,  she  knew  that 
Von  Pfaffen  would  be  going  back  and  forth  just  out 
side  the  windows,  as  he  laid  the  table,  going  back  and 
forth  much  as  the  sentry  had  done  earlier  in  the  morn 
ing,  watching  every  move  she  made,  everything  she 
did.  She  was  trapped.  Her  Judas-hour  had  come! 

Gerome  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  lifted 
her  lips  to  his. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "why  this  impatience?  Poor 
Antoine,  what  must  he  have  thought  ?" 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  arm,  her  shoulders 
quivering. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  sobbed,  "I  don't  care,  I  only 
know  that  you  are  going  to-day — this  morning — oh 
God,  am  I  ever  going  to  see  you  again?" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Gerome  held  her  close. 

"Marie,"  he  murmured,  "it  is  for  you  and  for  our 
beloved  country !" 

She  clung  to  him.  Oh,  to  have  him  with  her 
always,  to  be  away  from  everything  and  everybody, 
just  they  two.  Why  hadn't  some  power  told  her  that 
somewhere  this  man  was  waiting  for  her,  so  that  she 
might  have  come  to  him  as  pure  as  he  thought  her? 

"You're  all  I  have,"  she  cried,  "what  is  France, 
people,  armies,  the  whole  world,  compared  to  you?" 

His  heart  was  bleeding  too,  with  the  tragedy  of 
having  to  leave  her  now,  of  all  times,  but  he  must  not 
let  her  see. 

"My  dearest,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "are  you  a  sol 
dier's  wife,  and  send  him  into  battle  this  way?  Are 
you  going  to  let  me  go  remembering  only  your 
tears?" 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you !"  Her  very  soul  was  shak 
ing  with  her  grief ;  "you're  all  I  have."  He  held  her 
away  from  him  and  tried  to  force  her  to  look  into 
his  eyes. 

"Let  me  feel  that  you  arc  sending  me  to  fight  for 
France  and  you,"  he  pleaded,  "with  a  smile  on  your 
lips,  pride  in  your  heart,  because  of  the  honor  done 
me!" 

Marie  looked  at  him,  all  the  love  she  had  to  give 
in  her  eyes.  The  pride  he  asked  for  was  in  her  heart, 
the  smile  struggled  to  her  lips,  then  through  the  win 
dow  she  caught  sight  of  Von  Pfaffen.  He  was  too  far 
off  to  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  his  eyes  held 
hers  meaningly. 

The  smile  faded,  leaving  her  face  set  and  tragic. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  235 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  began  desperately, 
"where  are  you  going?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"That,"  he  said  seriously,  "I  may  not  tell  you." 

"I  must  know,  I  must  know !"  Von  Pf affen  was 
watching  her.  She  must  go  on.  The  tide  was  too 
strong,  it  swept  her  on  relentlessly.  "I  must  know !" 

"Marie,"  he  said,  pressing  his  cheek  against  her 
hair,  "Don't  you  know  you're  asking  something  that 
I  must  guard  with  my  honor?" 

For  a  moment  she  sobbed  aloud  against  his 
shoulder.  Even  with  her  eyes  hidden,  she  knew  that 
Von  Pf  affen  was  standing  just  beyond  in  the  garden, 
meekly  laying  the  table  for  luncheon,  but  ready  to 
throw  aside  the  humility  of  the  servant  and  stand  be 
fore  her,  her  accuser.  She  must  go  on. 

"Then  it's  true,"  she  sobbed,  "it's  true,  what  I've 
been  fearing,  what  I've  been  dreading.  There  is  to 
be  a  terrible  battle  somewhere,  soon.  I  won't  know 
where." 

"Hush,  ma  cherie"  soothed  Gerome,  but  she 
sobbed  on. 

"I  must  know !    I  must  know !" 

"Marie,"  it  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 
The  agony  of  her  grief  frightened  him. 

"Don't  you  love  me  enough  to  tell  me?"  she 
pleaded.  "I  must  know !  You  may  be  wounded,  you 
may  be  killed !" 

Gerome's  endurance  was  almost  worn  away. 

"Listen,  Marie "  he  began,  but  she  shook  her 

head. 


236  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"I  must  know,"  she  begged,  "you  don't  know  what 
it  means  to  me !" 

Her  sobs  were  so  wild,  her  form  shook  so  with  their 
force,  the  man's  will  broke. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered  passionately,  "I  can't  bear 
this !  Please — please — if  I  tell  you,  will  you  promise 
to  be  brave?" 

Marie  sprang  away  from  him. 

The  consciousness  of  the  awful  thing  she  was  doing 
overwhelmed  her  like  a  deluge.  Now  that  the  infor 
mation  she  wanted  was  trembling  on  her  husband's 
lips,  her  soul  cried  aloud  to  stop  it,  to  prevent  his 
telling  before  it  was  too  late. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  she  cried,  "don't  tell  me,"  but  he 
crushed  her  close  to  him. 

"Will  you  remember,"  he  said  tenderly,  "that  it  is 
not  only  my  honor  that  I  am  giving  into  your  keep 
ing,  but  my  country's  safety?" 

He  must  not  tell  her,  she  would  not  listen.  She 
cowered  in  his  arms,  but  Gerome  went  on.  It  was 
too  late. 

"My  loved  one,  listen,"  he  whispered,  "I  want  you 
to  pray  as  you  have  never  prayed  before,  that  to 
morrow,  at  dawn,  before  the  forts  of  Draise,  God 
will  grant  our  beloved  country  victory !" 

Marie  sank  into  his  arms. 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  "Draise  —  to-morrow  —  at 
dawn !" 

She  had  nerved  herself  for  the  ordeal  and  it  had 
come.  A  cold  wave  passed  over  her,  she  felt  her  ex 
pression  alter,  her  features  set.  She  seemed  to  hang 
in  a  great  void,  all  the  natural  forces  of  her  nature 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  237 

for  the  moment  were  suspended.  And  then  she  was 
looking  into  his  eyes  again.  As  from  a  great  dis 
tance,  she  heard  his  voice. 

"Marie,  what  is  it?  Don't  look  at  me  like  that! 
I  am  only  one  of  the  millions  and  for  every  man  who 
goes  there  is  a  woman  who  mourns.  It  is  hard  for 
you,  I  know,  terribly  hard,  yet  they  endure,  and  so 
must  you.  In  a  great  struggle  like  this,  the  indi 
vidual  is  lost.  He  is  only  a  stone  in  the  rampart 
erected  against  tyranny.  We  do  not  serve  our  own 
ends,  but  we  are  united  for  a  cause  that  means  more 
to  all  of  us  than  life  or  any  personal  sacrifice  that 
man  can  make !  I  would  be  unworthy  of  your  love  if 
I  were  not  willing  to  do  my  duty  for  my  country  at 
no  matter  what  cost  to  me,  and  I  know  that  you  would 
do  likewise." 

His  arms  were  about  her,  his  face  close  to  hers, 
there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  she  had  never  seen 
there  before. 

A  veil  that  had  obscured  her  clear  vision  was  torn 
away.  For  the  first  time  she  understood  how  false, 
how  wrong  had  been  the  structure  on  which  she  had 
built.  Real  sacrifice  meant  denying  oneself  so  that 
ideals  much  greater  than  can  have  to  do  with  indi 
vidual  affairs  might  be  served.  A  country's  cause, 
the  saving  or  the  loss  of  which  would  make  millions 
happy  or  miserable,  that  is  what  she  was  about  to 
jeopardize!  In  her  weakness  and  miserable  selfish 
ness  she  had  almost  been  tempted  to  do  a  dreadful 
deed. 

For  a  moment  she  shuddered,  then  she  lifted  her 
face  to  his.  The  light  in  his  eyes  flooded  into  hers, 


238  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

sank  into  her  heart,  transfigured  her.  Gerome,  look 
ing  at  her,  saw  a  miracle  come  to  pass,  for  the  weak, 
trembling  creature,  quaking  with  terror  who  had 
crept  into  his  arms  with  the  kiss  of  betrayal  upon  her 
lips,  had  passed  away  leaving  a  radiant-faced,  glow 
ing-eyed,  courageous  woman. 

She  had  the  information  that  would  assure  her 
safety,  yet  she  knew  that  no  matter  what  the  conse 
quences  to  her,  she  would  never  use  it. 

"My  darling,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  clear 
and  firm,  "my  gift  to  your  country  is  the  most 
precious  thing  I  have,  and  I  give  it  proudly !" 

There  was  a  tense  silence,  too  sacred  for  words. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said  at  last,  unsteadily ;  "kiss  me 
again !" 

She  lifted  her  lips  to  his  in  a  long  kiss,  wildly, 
passionately,  a  kiss  that  might  be  their  last  in  this 
world,  but  that  to  her  meant  the  sacred  seal  of  his 
faith  in  her.  . 

Then  he  tore  himself  away.  As  long  as  she  could 
see  him  from  the  window,  her  eyes  held  their  new 
light  of  exaltation,  but  when  the  gates  had  closed 
after  him,  she  sank  huddled  into  a  chair,  weeping 
bitterly. 

Presently  she  raised  her  head.  Von  Pfaffen  stood 
in  the  garden  watching.  His  sinister  stare  had  pene 
trated  her  consciousness  and  brought  her  back  to  a 
realization  of  what  lay  before  her. 

With  an  effort  she  calmed  herself.  It  was  neces 
sary  for  her  to  think,  to  plan.  In  a  few  moments  he 
would  come  for  the  information.  What  was  she  to 
tell  him?  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  knew  she  had 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  239 

obtained  it.  Would  she  defy  him  ?  Tell  him  to  do  his 
worst  and  take  the  consequences?  Would  she  expose 
him  to  the  General,  give  him  up  to  arrest,  and  so 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  do  further  harm?  Or 
was  there  a  better  way? 

In  the  whirling  tangle  of  her  thoughts  a  plan  was 
shaping  itself.  Vague,  formless  as  yet,  but  a  plan 
the  daring  of  which  set  her  heart  throbbing  with  the 
magnitude  of  its  possibilities. 

Gerome's  words  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  her  brain. 

"Draise — to-morrow — at  dawn !" 

Von  Pfaffen's  instructions  had  been 

"Write  the  name  of  the  town  and  the  time  on  a 
slip  of  paper." 

Suppose  she  should  substitute  the  name  of  some 
other  town  for  the  one  which  her  husband  had  told 
her,  a  place  far  removed  from  the  point  where  the 
attack  would  actually  be  made? 

If  the  enemy  could  be  given  the  wrong  informa 
tion  and  act  upon  it,  would  it  not  mean  that  he 
would  turn  his  forces  away  from  the  point  where  the 
battle  was  to  be  fought  and  so  assure  victory  for 
the  French? 

This  man  had  taken  advantage  of  her  inexperience 
and  had  wrought  evil  and  unhappiness  in  her  life  in 
the  guise  of  a  friend.  He  was  so  sure  of  his  power 
over  her,  that  he  was  trying  to  use  her  as  an  in 
strument  against  her  husband  and  the  cause  for  which 
at  this  moment  he  might  be  giving  his  life.  Surely 
she  was  justified  in  bringing  confusion  to  his  plans 
which  were  directed  against  herself  and  those  who 
were  dear  to  her. 


240  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

To  outwit  him!  To  make  his  efforts  to  crush  her 
be  the  means  of  his  own  undoing.  To  prove  to  him 
that  the  wife  of  Gerome,  developed  and  strengthened 
in  the  atmosphere  of  love  with  which  she  had  been 
surrounded,  was  a  different  woman  from  the  weak, 
inexperienced  Marie  of  Vienna. 

Her  gentle  heart  had  never  known  the  desire  for 
revenge,  but  as  her  mind  reviewed  all  that  she  had 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  Von  Pfaffen,  she  felt  for  the 
first  time  the  flame  of  bitter  hatred.  She  would  crush 
him  as  he  had  thought  to  crush  her.  She  would  give 
him  information,  but  of  such  a  nature  as  to  ruin  his 
career,  defeat  the  plans  of  the  cause  he  served. 

But  what  place  should  she  substitute  for  the  right 
one?  She  had  often  heard  her  little  maid  in  Paris 
speak  of  Sains,  the  town  where  she  was  born.  She 
knew  it  was  near  the  frontier,  though  some  distance 
from  Draise.  Why  not  write  Sains  instead  of  Draise? 

She  well  knew  the  nature  of  the  man  with  whom 
she  was  dealing.  He  would  never  rest  until  he  had 
been  revenged  upon  her.  She  scarcely  dared  think 
what  it  would  mean  to  her  when  her  husband  and  his 
family  knew  everything.  But  Grerome  had  spoken  of 
sacrifice.  This  would  be  hers  for  the  cause  he  loved. 

Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  were  brilliant.  She 
hurried  to  the  little  escritoire  and  wrote  hastily  on 
a  slip  of  paper: 

"Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak." 

As  she  finished  Von  Pfaffen  entered  from  the 
garden.  He  came  toward  her,  an  eager  gleam  in  his 
eyes,  but  before  he  could  speak  the  door  opened  and 
Paulette  entered. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Antoine,"  she  said,  "father  wishes  to  see  you  in 
the  library." 

He  ground  his  teeth. 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  he  answered  curtly,  but  as 
he  made  no  move  to  go,  Paulette,  surprised,  repeated : 

"At  once,  do  you  hear  ?    He  is  waiting !" 

Again  he  answered,  his  face  purple  with  suppressed 
rage: 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  and  with  almost  a  military 
turn,  he  left  the  room. 

Marie  waited,  breathlessly. 

Paulette  noticed  her  agitation  and  attributed  it 
to  her  rudeness  of  the  night  before.  She  came  over 
to  her  sister-in-law  contritely. 

"Marie,"  she  began,  "I  was  unkind  yesterday. 
Forgive  me,  I  can  feel  for  you.  I  know  what  you  are 
suffering." 

Marie's  fear  was  that  the  little  paper  on  the  desk 
might  fail  to  serve  its  purpose,  that  something  might 
occur  to  warn  Von  Pfaffen.  She  knew  that  he  would 
leave  as  soon  as  he  got  possession  of  it.  She  was  in 
an  agony  of  apprehension  lest  this  interruption  now, 
when  every  moment  was  precious,  might  in  some  way 
thwart  her  plan. 

But  Paulette  saw  only  in  her  distress  sorrow  at 
Gerome's  going.  Her  heart,  naturally  kind,  warped 
though  it  was  for  the  time  by  the  bitter  hatred  for 
the  enemies  of  the  man  she  loved,  sympathized  with 
her  alien  sister-in-law.  Love  she  could  understand. 
She  must  do  what  she  could  to  help  her.  Her  mother 
had  been  right. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  she  said.  "Gerome  wishes  it. 
Let  us  comfort  one  another." 

Marie  stared  at  her  blindly.  Could  she  tell  this 
girl?  Would  she  have  done  the  same  thing?  Her 
eyes  looked  far  away. 

"Paulette,"  she  said  at  last,  "there  is  nothing  worth 
while  but  the  love  of  the  one  you  care  for,  is  there?" 

"That  and  his  honor,"  answered  the  girl. 

"His  honor !"  repeated  Marie.  Thank  God  she  had 
not  betrayed  his  honor.  She  took  her  sister-in-law's 
hands  in  hers.  Perhaps  after  all  her  plan  had  not 
been  the  right  one.  Perhaps  this  girl  could  tell  her 
a  better  way.  "Suppose  you  had  to  choose,  and  you 
could  save  only  one  thing,"  she  said,  "Maurice's 
honor,  or  his  love  for  you,  which  would  it  be?" 

Paulette  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  "that  could  not  be 
possible.  We  can  all  only  pray  that  they  come  back 
to  us." 

Marie  turned  away  with  a  catch  in  her  throat. 

"Paulette,"  she  said,  "if  you  only  understood !" 

The  girl  put  her  arm  about  her  waist. 

"Come,"  she  said  soothingly,  "let  me  take  you  to 
your  room.  We  can  be  more  quiet  there." 

With  all  her  heart  Marie  prayed  that  the  sacrifice 
she  was  making  might  not  be  in  vain,  that  it  would  in 
some  small  measure  make  amends  for  what  she  had 
done  in  the  past. 

With  a  sigh  she  let  Paulette  lead  her  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

MADAME  coming  in  later,  found  the  room  still  dis 
ordered,  and  as  she  rang  the  bell,  she  shook  her  head 
over  the  interrupted  routine  of  the  household.  Even 
with  all  the  serious  problems  before  them,  the  little 
every-day  things  must  not  be  neglected. 

"Nanine,"  she  said,  when  the  old  woman  answered 
her  ring,  "the  General's  friends  are  gone,  and  you 
can  put  the  room  in  order  now." 

"Yes,  Madame,"  the  old  woman  looked  about  her, 
grumbling.  Long  before  this  hour  the  work  of  the 
household  was  usually  finished. 

"The  little  desk  also,  Nanine,"  Madame  reminded 
her  as  she  was  leaving  the  room ;  "gather  up  all  those 
waste  papers  and  burn  them,"  and  she  closed  the  door 
after  her. 

The  old  woman  went  about  heavily,  pulling  the 
chairs  in  place  and  arranging  the  disordered  table. 
Then  she  went  to  the  desk  and  swept  into  her  broad 
apron  the  loose  papers.  With  them  went  the  little 
note  Marie  had  left  for  Von  Pf affen,  the  slip  of  paper 
that  was  to  sacrifice  her  happiness  for  the  sake  of 
France. 

But  Nanine  only  grumbled  at  this  extra  work. 
This  was  what  Antoine  should  do.  Where  was  he? 
Why  wasn't  he  here?  She  shuffled  to  the  fireplace 
and  emptied  her  apron  into  the  grate.  Stooping 
stiffly  she  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  little  pile  of 
papers.  As  they  blazed  up,  she  rested  back  on  her 

heels,  her  shriveled  old  hands  held  out  to  the  tiny 

243 


244  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

blaze,  grateful  for  the  warmth  on  this  crisp  morning. 

She  didn't  hear  the  door  open,  nor  see  the  dusty, 
hard-ridden  young  soldier  who  entered.  Her  faded 
old  eyes  stared  into  the  flames,  tearless,  but  full  of 
the  hopeless  tragedy  of  the  peasant  who  gives  all  and 
must  never  ask  why. 

"Mother!"  and  at  the  word  she  turned  with  a 
start. 

"Jacques!"  she  cried,  scrambling  to  her  feet. 
"Back  so  soon?" 

"The  message  from  Captain  le  Cerf  was  received 
at  Headquarters,"  he  told  her  as  he  kissed  her,  "and 
I  was  ordered  to  bring  it  here  at  once." 

Even  in  her  joy  at  seeing  this  dearly  loved  son  the 
old  woman's  heart  was  glad  for  Paulette. 

"So  he  got  away?"  she  said;  "won't  my  little 
Mam'selle  be  happy?  When  is  he  expected?" 

Jacques  stretched  his  dusty  length  in  Madame's 
damask-covered  chair,  and  his  mother  did  not  repri 
mand  him.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  him. 

"He'll  be  at  Sains,"  he  said,  "to-morrow,  at  day 
break!" 

"At  Sains?"  she  said,  "why,  that's  not  far!" 

Jacques  held  up  a  note. 

"He  arrives  to-morrow  at  daybreak,"  he  said ;  "it's 
written  here." 

She  came  to  his  side  with  her  head  as  close  to  his 
as  the  great  wings  of  her  Breton  cap  would  allow, 
and  peered  at  the  paper  the  boy  held  out  to  her. 

"  'Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak,' '"  she  read 
slowly,  her  broad  forefinger  tracing  out  the  words. 

She  laid  the  note  down  on  the  desk,  almost  on  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  245 

same  spot  where  not  many  minutes  before  had  rested 
Marie's  hasty  scrawl. 

"Do  you  have  to  go  back  at  once?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 

The  boy  patted  her  shoulder. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  said;  "there  is  great  work  to 
do,  and  I  must  get  back  and  do  my  share !" 

"But,"  and  her  voice  shook,  "when  will  I  see  you 
again  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  mother,"  he  said,  "I  can't  tell!" 

Quite  suddenly  the  tears  started  from  her  faded 
eyes  and  trickled  down  the  furrows  of  her  rough 
checks. 

"You  will  be  careful  ?"  she  asked  huskily ;  "you're 
all  I  have  now,  I'm — I'm  getting  a  bit  old  and — 
you're  all  I  have,"  she  finished  weakly. 

Jacques  patted  her  shoulder  roughly. 

"Don't  worry,  mother,"  he  grinned,  sheepishly 
conscious  of  the  tears  in  his  own  eyes,  "don't  worry, 
I'll  come  back !" 

The  old  woman  clung  to  him  fiercely,  her  chin 
quivering,  her  faded  eyes  blazing  with  the  fire  that 
outlasts  all  others. 

"Why  do  you  have  to  go?"  she  cried  hoarsely, 
"what  have  we  ever  done  ?  Why  should  you  kill  any 
one?  Why  should  anyone  kill  you?  Why?  What's 
it  all  for?  What's  it  all  about?"  Her  withered 
cheeks  were  wet,  her  staunch  old  heart  was  torn  with 
a  sort  of  bewildered  sorrow.  "Why  should  my  other 
two  boys  be  taken  from  me?"  she  went  on.  "Pierre, 
the  finest  smith  in  Brittany!  Jean,  who  could  lift 
an  ox  off  its  feet !  I  don't  understand !" 


246  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

The  last  of  her  brood  shook  his  sturdy  head.  He, 
too,  had  asked  himself  "why?"  He  had  heard  others 
about  him  asking  why,  and  to  none  had  there  been 
given  an  explanation. 

"I  don't  understand  myself,  mother,"  he  said ;  "but 
the  country  says  we  must  go,  and  so  we  go !" 

The  old  woman's  anger  flared  up  again. 

"The  ones  who  should  suffer  are  those  who  set 
them  on,"  she  cried ;  "but  they  never  do !  They  never 
do !  It  is  only  we  mothers  of  strong  young  men.  I 
don't  see  why!" 

Jacques  looked  at  her  gravely.  "It  is  for  our 
country,"  he  said;  "they  want  to  invade  it,  destroy 
our  homes,  our  fine  old  buildings.  We  can't  let  them 
do  that,"  and  he  squared  his  shoulders  as  his  country 
was  doing.  "We'll  go  on  fighting  till  they  stop 
trying!"  he  said. 

Nanine  dried  her  eyes  on  her  apron. 

"I  suppose  you're  right,  Jacques,"  she  sighed, 
"but  I've  given  two." 

"The  officers  say  it  will  be  over  soon !" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "they've  said  that  for  a  long 
time,  but  it  goes  on,  and  men  are  being  ground  up 
like — like  coffee  in  a  mill !" 

Jacques  laughed. 

"Not  me,  mother,"  he  assured  her. 

"How  do  I  know?"  her  heavy  lips  were  quivering 
pathetically  again ;  "when  you  were  a  prisoner  I 
thought  you  were  safe  till  it  was  all  over.  I  thought 
I'd  saved  one  out  of  the  three !" 

Jacques  sighed.  He  never  remembered  seeing  his 
mother  break  before.  When  the  news  had  come  about 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  247 

Jean,  she  had  sat  wide-eyed  and  silent  for  an  hour, 
and  then  had  risen  and  gone  about  her  usual  tasks 
without  mentioning  his  death.  Pierre  had  lain 
wounded  for  days  at  Neuilly.  She  had  made  the  long 
trip  to  see  him  and  the  finest  smith  in  Brittany  had 
gasped  away  his  life  in  the  arms  that  had  first  held 
him.  She  had  journeyed  back  to  the  little  gate-house 
of  the  Chateau  de  la  Motte,  dry-eyed  and  silent. 
But  to-day,  now  that  this  last  one  of  her  brood  was 
leaving  her  perhaps  forever,  the  strong  old  heart 
could  no  longer  bear  its  burden  of  grief. 

"I'll  come  back,  mother,"  he  said  huskily,  "I'll 
come  back  a — a — sergeant." 

"Much  good  that'll  do  without  arms  or  legs,"  she 
grunted.  "I've  seen  a  lot  like  that!" 

Jacques  laughed  uneasily. 

"But  not  me,  mother!" 

"I  was  proud  to  think  that  you  got  away  from 
them,"  she  went  on,  "that  they  couldn't  hold  you,  but 
I  almost  wish  you  were  back." 

Jacques  looked  at  her  heaving  shoulders  and  tragic, 
withered  face. 

"When  Pierre  and  Jean  went,  you  didn't  take  on 
so." 

"I  didn't  know  what  it  was  like  then,"  she  choked, 
"I  didn't  know  what  it  was  like !" 

"I  must  go  now,  mother,"  he  muttered. 

The  old  woman  tried  bravely  to  smile  into  the 
young  face. 

"Can't  you  stay  and  have  something  to  eat?"  she 
begged. 

Jacques    was   hungry,    very    hungry.      His    soul 


248  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

yearned  for  the  many  good  things  his  mother  cooked. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  he  said  wistfully,  "but  it's  orders." 

Nanine  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  rocked 
him  back  and  forth. 

"Be  careful,"  she  pleaded,  "you're  all  I  have.  God 
bless  you!" 

The  boy  tore  himself  away. 

"Good-bye,  mother;  be  sure  and  give  the  note  to 
Mam'selle,"  he  called  as  he  went  through  the  long 
window  into  the  garden.  Nanine  waved  him  a  tear 
ful  good-bye,  her  apron  held  to  her  lips,  her  heart  in 
her  eyes.  She  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

What  a  bitter  lot  is  woman's.  The  world  belongs 
to  men.  For  women  it  is  only  a  meeting,  a  parting, 
a  supreme  joy  for  awhile,  and  then  endless,  hopeless 
tears.  With  a  groan  she  turned  heavily  back  into 
the  room. 

The  note  for  her  Mademoiselle  must  not  be  for 
gotten. 

As  she  turned  to  the  desk  where  it  lay,  Von  Pfaffen 
came  in.  His  face  darkened. 

"Here,"  he  said  roughly,  "what  are  you  doing?" 

Nanine  eyed  him  resentfully,  her  heavy  Breton 
face  flushing. 

"Who  are  you  to  order  me  about?"  she  asked,  in 
her  coarsest  peasant  manner. 

The  man  was  furious  at  her  insolence. 

"You'll  go  out  of  here,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth ; 
"this  is  no  place  for  you !" 

"Norn  ffun  chien"  the  old  woman's  voice  rose  in  a 
tirade  of  abuse,  her  eyes  blazed  with  anger;  "I'll  do 
what  I  please !  You  black  coat !" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  249 

Von  Pfaffen's  face  reddened  under  her  insult. 

"I'll  teach  you  how  to  talk  to  your  betters,"  he 
said  with  an  oath,  and  crossing  to  her  with  a  quick 
stride,  he  laid  a  rough  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

She  twisted  under  his  clutch. 

"You  scum !  You  toad !"  she  screamed ;  "you  leave 
me  be !" 

Her  strident,  peasant  voice  carried  out  into  the 
hall,  and  Madame  came  hurrying  in. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.    "What  is  wrong?" 

Nanine  stopped  her  scolding  and  stood  sullenly, 
while  the  man  explained. 

"I  did  not  give  her  permission  to  come  in  here, 
Madame,"  he  said,  "and  she  refuses  to  go !" 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  Madame  quietly.  "I  told 
her  to  come  and  arrange  the  room.  You  were  busy 
with  the  General.  Go  to  Mademoiselle  Paulette, 
Nanine,  she  is  expecting  you.  Her  commission  has 
come.  She  wants  you  to  help  her  with  her  costume." 

The  old  woman  started  for  the  door,  her  anger  at 
the  butler  making  her  forget  for  a  moment  the  paper 
that  Jacques  had  brought,  and  which  lay  on  the  desk. 

The  man  opened  the  door.  She  went  through 
heavily,  turning  just  enough  for  him  to  see  the  sneer 
she  flung  at  him  as  she  left. 

"Anything  more,  Madame?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  turned  ungraciously, 
closing  the  door  after  him. 

Madame  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  table.  Her 
heart  was  heavy.  War  is  crudest  to  women,  for  their 
wounds  are  of  the  soul ;  but  Marie,  opening  the  door, 
met  a  brave  smile,  kindly  welcoming  eyes.  When 


250  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Paulette  had  left  her,  she  had  promised  to  try  and 
rest,  but  it  was  impossible,  and  nervously  she  paced 
her  room,  her  brain  in  a  turmoil  with  the  thoughts 
that  harrassed  her.  Would  her  plan  succeed? 

It  must !  It  must !  There  must  be  nothing  to  pre 
vent  it !  She  was  filled  with  a  breathless  hope  as  the 
bewildering  possibility  became  clear  to  her,  that  she 
might  indeed  become  the  instrument  by  means  of 
which  France  was  to  be  saved !  The  thought  trans 
figured  her,  lifted  her  out  of  the  doubt  and  agony 
which  had  surrounded  her.  To  be  of  use  to  the  one 
she  loved,  to  save  what  was  more  to  him  than  his  life, 
was  her  mission.  This  accomplished,  whatever  hap 
pened  to  her  was  of  no  consequence. 

There  were  so  many  things  that  might  interfere 
with  the  success  of  her  plan,  Von  Pfaffen  might  dis 
cover  it,  her  note  might  fall  into  other  hands.  There 
was  so  little  time,  so  much  to  be  done.  She  realized 
that  she  must  deliver  her  message  as  soon  as  possible. 
Perhaps  he  was  waiting  even  now.  She  flung  open 
her  door  and  hurried  dovrn  the  stair  and  into  the 
salon,  but  here  was  her  husband's  mother  with  her 
quiet  smile  and  sweet,  kind  eyes,  and  on  the  little 
desk  still  lay  the  folded  slip  of  paper  that  was  so 
like  the  one  she  had  placed  there. 

Madame's  voice  was  compassionate  as  she  looked 
into  the  white  face. 

"Come  in,  dear,"  she  said.  "You  must  try  and 
compose  yourself,  your  cheeks  are  pale.  I  think  a 
walk  in  the  garden  would  do  us  both  good." 

"You  are  so  sweet  to  me,  so  kind!"  murmured 
Marie.  "I  want  you  all  to  love  me !" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  251 

Madame  pressed  her  hand  tenderly. 

"We  will,  dear,"  she  said.  "You  and  Paulette  and 
I  will  be  alone  for  luncheon  to-day.  We  can  all  learn 
to  know  each  other  better." 

Marie  looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"I  do  love  you,"  she  said  earnestly;  "no  matter 
what  happens,  I  want  you  to  believe  that." 

Madame  had  divined  her  condition  with  the  quick 
sense  of  the  mother  heart,  and  her  kindness  doubled. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "and  we  can  talk  of  our  dear 
ones,"  but  the  girl  was  thinking  of  the  little  paper 
on  the  desk. 

"I  can't,"  she  gasped,  "I  can't,"  and  she  shrank 
away. 

Madame  went  to  the  bell. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "Antoine  shall  bring  us  wraps. 
The  morning  air  is  cool." 

Marie  watched  her,  a  prayer  in  her  heart,  to  be 
able  to  do  something  to  repay  these  people  for  the 
love  they  were  giving  her. 

Presently  Von  Pfaffen  opened  the  door.  He  shot 
a  swift  glance  at  the  girl  from  under  his  heavy  brows. 

"Madame?"  he  asked,  turning  to  his  mistress. 

"Bring  the  scarfs  you  will  find  in  the  entrance 
hall,  Antoine." 

As  the  man  left  the  room,  Marie  sank  breathlessly 
into  a  chair.  Would  she  be  able  to  carry  out  her 
plan?  Would  her  pale  cheeks,  or  anything  in  her 
manner,  betray  her  to  her  tormentor's  keen  gaze? 

Madame  looked  pityingly  into  the  white  face. 

"Come  dear,  you  break  my  heart  with  your  tragic 
eyes.  Remember,  I  am  his  mother!" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

With  a  cry,  the  girl  started  to  her  feet,  but  Von 
Pfaffen  opened  the  door,  the  scarfs  over  his  arm,  and 
again  she  subsided  into  her  chair,  waiting. 

Madame  took  a  filmy  gray  scarf  and  let  him  wrap 
it  about  her  shoulders,  and  as  she  went  toward  the 
window,  he  came  to  Marie  with  the  ostensible  humility 
of  a  servant. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  forced  herself  toward  this 
man  whom  she  loathed. 

As  he  slipped  the  wrap  about  her  shoulders,  he 
muttered  under  his  breath : 

"Well?" 

And  in  a  quick  whisper  she  answered  • 

"On  the  desk!" 

Madame  at  the  window,  turned. 

"Coming,  dear  ?"  she  asked,  and  as  the  man  stepped 
aside  Marie  followed  her  out  into  the  garden. 

Von  Pfaffen  watched  them  disappear,  then  he 
turned  hurriedly  to  the  little  desk,  where  he  found  the 
paper  that  told  of  Maurice's  coming.  Eagerly  he 
seized  it  and  held  it  close  to  his  eyes,  his  face  glowing 
with  triumph. 

"  'Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak,' '  he  read. 
"Ah,  my  Fatherland!"  lie  breathed,  then  lifting  his 
fist,  shook  it  fiercely  at  his  surroundings.  "Now 
I  am  rid  of  all  this !" 

Triumphantly  he  went  through  the  door,  his 
shoulders  squared,  the  cloak  of  the  servant  dropped 
forever. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WHEN  Nanine  and  Paulette  came  down  the  great 
stairway  a  few  minutes  later,  the  girl  was  trembling 
with  excitement.  She  was  dressed  in  the  field  uniform 
of  an  army  nurse.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes 
feverishly  bright.  The  letter  telling  of  her  commis 
sion  had  just  reached  her  that  morning  and  the  long- 
prepared  costume  was  donned  for  the  first  time. 

"Are  you  sure  you  remember  the  message,  Nanine  ?" 
she  asked.  "Tell  me  again  what  it  said." 

Patiently  the  old  woman  repeated  the  words. 

"I  have  told  you,  dearie,"  she  said,  "  'Sains — to 
morrow — at  daybreak !' ' 

"Sains,  that's  not  far  away !  But  I  must  be  sure, 
Nanine.  I  must  be  sure !  I  must  see  the  note.  Where 
is  it?  Where  is  it?" 

Nanine  crossed  heavily  to  the  little  desk.  Not 
finding  what  she  sought,  she  uttered  a  sharp  excla 
mation.  The  girl  flew  to  her  side. 

"What  is  it,  Nanine?  What  is  it?"  she  cried  fear 
fully. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  at  her  blankly. 

"It's  gone!"  she  gasped. 

Paulette  echoed  her  words,  her  eyes  wide  and 
frightened. 

"Gone?" 

Nanine  rummaged  frantically. 

"Oh,  my  dearie,"  she  wailed,  "I  put  it  here,  a  bit 
of  paper  with  'Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak' 

written  on  it.    Where  can  it  be?    Where  can  it  be?" 

253 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Paulette  stood  watching  her  breathlessly. 

"Nanine,"  her  voice  shook,  "there  is  something 
wrong !" 

The  old  woman  stopped  in  her  search. 

"Will  harm  come  to  him,  dearie?"  she  quavered. 

"Oh,  Nanine,"  cried  the  girl,  terror  beating  at  her 
heart,  "I  don't  know— I'm  afraid !" 

"Mon  petit  chou!"  soothed  the  old  woman.  "What 
does  the  loss  of  the  paper  matter?  I  remember  the 
words,  'Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak,'  "  but  her 
deep  breast  rose  and  fell  with  some  of  the  terror  that 
was  shaking  her  young  mistress. 

"Someone  has  stolen  it!"  said  Paulette  miser 
ably.  "What  good  does  it  do  for  you  to  remember? 
Maurice  will  be  taken  back  to  prison,  perhaps  shot !" 
The  thought  sent  her  hand  to  her  throat  in  terror. 

"Shot !"  Nanine  stared  at  her,  frightened.  "What 
shall  we  do?"  she  cried. 

"We  must  get  word  to  father." 

In  all  Paulette's  short  life  her  father  had  always 
been  her  refuge  in  time  of  trouble.  He  would  know 
what  to  do. 

"Oh,  Nanine,  why  didn't  you  bring  it  to  me  at 
once?  Why  didn't  you?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  sadly.  For  the 
sake  of  those  few  last  moments  with  her  boy  this  new 
trouble  had  come  upon  them. 

"Perhaps  Madame  can  help  us,"  she  said;  "let  us 
ask  her !" 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Paulette  eagerly.  "Go  find 
her  at  once !  I'll  go  to  her  room,  she  may  be  there !" 

The  old  woman  hurried  out  and  Paulette  had  just 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  255 

crossed  the  threshold  into  the  shadows  of  the  outer 
hall  when,  through  the  long  window,  came  Marie. 
Paulette  turned  and  watched  her  curiously  as  she  went 
straight  to  the  little  desk. 

The  sunlight  of  the  garden  was  still  in  Marie's 
eyes,  and  she  did  not  see  the  girl  standing  in  the 
loorway.  One  glance  was  enough  to  show  her  that 
the  note  was  gone.  The  Fate  of  France  was  on  the 
knees  of  the  gods.  She  had  done  her  best.  Turning, 
she  found  herself  facing  Paulette,  whose  eyes  blazed 
with  rage  and  hatred. 

"So,"  she  cried,  "it's  you !" 

Marie  recoiled.  For  a  moment  she  failed  to  recog 
nize  the  girl  in  her  nurse's  garb.  When  she  did,  her 
face  went  white. 

"I  knew  I  suspected  you  with  reason,"  went  on 
Paulette  furiously,  "no  one  else  could  have  taken  it. 
No  one  would  be  interested.  Here,  we  are  all  friends, 

working  for  each  other,  but  you "  and  at  the 

scorn  in  her  voice,  Marie  cowered  away  from  her. 

"Don't — please,"  she  breathed. 

Paulette  shook  her  roughly  by  the  shoulders. 

"Where  is  it?"  she  cried,  "the  paper  that  was  here; 
where  is  it?" 

Marie's  heart  stopped  beating.  What  could 
Paulette-  know  of  the  paper  ? 

"God!"  she  gasped. 

Her  sister-in-law  looked  at  her,  sorrow  struggling 
with  hate. 

"Why  did  you?  Why  did  you ?"  she  asked.  "What 
have  I  done?  What  has  Maurice  done?" 

Marie  leaned  away  from  her  in  astonishment. 


256  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Maurice?"  she  asked. 

"My  sweetheart,"  went  on  Paulette,  "in  a  German 
prison.  He  was  to  escape!  You  have  stolen  the 
note  telling  where  he  is  to  be.  What  have  you  done 
with  it?" 

Marie  started.  In  a  flash  she  understood  that  she 
and  Paulette  were  thinking  of  different  things.  Von 
Pfaffen  had  undoubtedly  found  her  own  note.  But 
if  there  had  been  two  notes?  Would  this  not  create 
confusion  and  suspicion  in  his  mind  and  so  defeat  her 
plan  after  all? 

"Listen,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "I  did  not  take  it! 
I  swear  I  did  not  take  it.  If  someone  has  it,  we  must 
get  there  before  it  is  too  late !  We  must  save 
Maurice.  Where  is  he  ?" 

"How  can  I  trust  you  ?"  began  Paulette  bitterly. 

For  a  long  moment  the  two  women  stared  at  each 
other.  At  last  Marie  spoke. 

"Tell  me — where  is  he?"  she  repeated.  "Tell  me, 
or  you  will  regret  it  all  your  life !" 

There  was  something  so  convincing  in  the  tone  of 
her  voice  that  Paulette  found  herself  eueving  in 
spite  of  herself.  Unconsciously  their  positions  were 
changed;  it  was  Marie  who  now  stood  firm  and  sure 
of  herself,  Paulette  who  trembled. 

"He  will  be  at  Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak," 
she  whispered. 

Marie's  eyes  slowly  dilated,  her  face  froze  into  the 
expression  of  an  ancient  Greek  tragic  mask.  From 
the  depths  of  her  very  soul  came  a  groan  of  anguish. 
Tensely  she  repeated  the  words: 

"Sains — to-morrow — at  daybreak  !" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  257 

She  had  thought  her  plan  so  sure,  so  certain  to  aid 
her  husband's  cause,  but  whichever  way  she  turned, 
she  seemed  doomed  to  bring  misery  to  those  she  loved. 
She  knew  that  Von  Pfaffen  was  already  well  on  his 
way  to  the  enemy.  The  words  she  had  written  were 
stamped  on  her  memory.  What  evil  spirit  had  made 
her  choose  Sains?  Sains,  where  to-morrow  at  day 
break,  Paulette's  sweetheart,  having  risked  his 
life  for  liberty,  would  only  be  reaching  this  haven 
of  safety  as  the  guns  of  the  enemy  were  turned 
against  its  walls. 

Paulette  looked  at  her,  frightened. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  whispered.  At  last  Marie  spoke, 
the  words  coming  through  her  stiff  lips  in  jerking, 
staccato  tones: 

"You  must  go  to  him,"  she  said;  "you  must  go 
now,  at  once." 

Go  to  him  herself!  The  thought  staggered  her. 
The  difficulty!  The  danger!  The  horrible  country 
she  must  cross  before  she  should  arrive  at  Sains, 
where  battles  were  even  now  raging ! 

"Oh,  how  can  I  go?"  she  cried,  covering  her  eyes. 
"Out  there  in  the  midst  of  all  those  horrors!  How 
can  I?" 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  urged  Marie,  "you  are 
going  to  the  man  you  love." 

Slowly  Paulette  lifted  her  brown  head. 

"Can  I?    Dare  I?"  she  murmured. 

In  the  distance  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  the 
guns,  which  all  morning  had  been  growing  louder  and 
louder,  sometimes  swelling  into  a  roar  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  very  earth. 


258  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Marie  put  her  hand  on  her  arm,  her  whole  body 
vibrating  with  emotion. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "the  Germans  are  to  make  an 
attack  on  Sains  to-morrow  at  daybreak!" 

Paulette  uttered  a  cry. 

"How  do  you  know  this?  What  are  you?  Who 
are  you?" 

"Don't  ask  me  how  I  know,"  went  on  Marie,  "don't 
ask  me  anything,  only  for  God's  sake  go  to  Sains ! 
Warn  the  town!  Warn  the  commanding  General!  O 
hurry,  hurry,  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose!" 

Paulette  stared  at  her  fiercely,  her  hatred  and  dis 
trust  returning  and  blazing  from  her  eyes. 

"I  knew  you  were  a  spy,"  she  cried.  "I  knew  I 
hated  you  with  reason.  Tell  me  how  you  know  this, 
tell  me,  tell  me!" 

Into  Marie's  heart  came  a  great  sadness,  her 
punishment  was  beginning.  How  could  this  girl  be 
lieve  her?  Would  anyone  ever  trust  her? 

"Your  note  was  stolen,"  she  said.  "The  one 
who  has  it  is  taking  it  to  the  enemy!  I  know!  I 
tried  to  help  my  husband's  cause,  but  in  doing  so  I 
have  endangered  Maurice's  life.  Oh,  Paulette,  I 
thought  that  what  I  did  was  for  the  best.  Don't  look 
at  me  like  that.  Some  day  you  will  understand !" 

Paulette  was  wild  with  rage.  This  woman  whom 
they  had  made  one  of  themselves,  whom  her  parents 
had  taken  to  their  hearts  and  given  the  position  due 
the  wife  of  their  beloved  son,  had  betrayed  them.  But 
there  was  a  punishment  for  such  as  she. 

"I'll  have  you  shot,"  she  panted.     "I'll  have  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  259 

soldiers  drag  you  to  prison  for  the  spy  that  you 
are "  but  Marie  was  at  her  side. 

"Paulette,"  she  said  earnestly,  "will  you  allow  your 
hatred  and  distrust  of  me  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
doing  a  great  service  for  France  and  saving  Maurice  ? 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  Germans  will  attack  Sains 
to-morrow  at  dawn.  I  need  not  tell  you  what  it 
would  mean  to  your  countrymen  to  know  this  and 
prepare  for  their  coming.  If  you  do  not  heed  me, 
you  will  never  know  happiness  again!  This  is  the 
opportunity  of  your  whole  life  to  serve  the  cause  you 
love.  Do  not  cast  it  aside!  Go  to  Sains!  Save  the 
city!  Save  your  love,  then  come  back  and  do  what 
ever  you  will  to  me,  only,  for  God's  sake,  hurry !" 

Her  voice  was  so  earnest,  so  vibrant  with  the  desire 
that  prompted  her,  that  in  spite  of  her  suspicion  the 
girl  paused  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"If  I  could  only  trust  you,"  she  said. 

Quick  to  sense  the  momentary  lowering  of  the 
barriers,  Marie  put  a  pleading  hand  on  her  arm. 

"You  can,"  she  said,  "oh,  do  believe  me.  The  cause 
you  love  is  as  dear  to  me  as  to  you.  You  must  go, 
there  is  no  other  way !"  Her  eyes  rested  on  the  little 
insignia  on  the  collar  of  the  girl's  costume,  and 
mentally  following  her  gaze,  Paulette  became  sud 
denly  aware  of  her  uniform.  This  would  be  the  means 
of  reaching  Maurice.  Her  hands  would  nurse  him 
after  all.  He  would  be  her  first  patient. 

Her  eyes  cleared  of  the  vision  of  blood  and  terror, 
the  hatred  and  distrust  died  in  her  heart.  Her 
shoulders  squared  with  the  strength  of  her  father, 
her  chin  lifted  with  her  mother's  poise. 


260  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"I'll  go,"  she  said.  "I  am  a  soldier's  daughter! 
I  am  to  be  a  soldier's  bride!  I'll  go!" 

"Go  now,"  urged  Marie;  "it  isn't  far.  I  swear  I 
didn't  take  it.  Won't  you  believe  me?  It  isn't  your 
happiness  that  is  threatened.  Oh,  believe  me!  Be 
lieve  me !" 

"If  I  am  only  in  time,"  breathed  Paulette,  as  she 
turned  to  go. 

Marie  followed  her  to  the  window. 

"Little  sister,"  she  pleaded,  "you  at  least  I  would 
save  unhappiness.  God  speed!"  and  suddenly,  be 
lieving,  Paulette  turned  and  flung  her  arms  about 
her  neck,  then  with  her  head  held  high,  she  went  out 
through  the  garden. 

Marie  watched  her  go.  How  many  partings  there 
had  been  in  these  short  hours.  She  watched  Nanine 
close  and  bar  the  heavy  gates  after  the  slender  figure, 
drying  her  eyes  with  the  back  of  her  hand  as  she 
did  so. 

"  'Sains — to-morrow — at  dawn !"  the  words  were 
burned  into  her  brain.  Her  head  went  down  on  her 
arms  across  the  little  desk. 

From  the  depths  of  the  garden,  Madame  saw  the 
girl  go  through  the  gate,  and  hurried  into  the  salon. 
Her  quick  step  in  the  hall  roused  Marie.  She  rose  to 
meet  her. 

"She  has  gone,  ma  mere"  she  told  her  gently ;  "she 
has  gone  to  the  man  she  loves." 

"Gone — my  little  Paulette,  gone?  Out  there, 
without  a  word  to  me,"  her  face  was  suddenly  old, 
gray,  the  lines  about  her  mouth  seemed  drawn  with 
a  shaded  pencil. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  261 

"A  message  came  this  morning,"  said  Marie;  "it 
told  of  Maurice's  escape.  Someone  has  intercepted  it, 
and  Paulette,  fearing  for  his  safety,  has  gone  to  him." 

"We  have  been  waiting  for  this  message,"  said 
Madame,  "but  Paulette,  alone!  Out  there!"  She 
looked  toward  the  horizon  from  whence  came  the 
deep-throated  roar  of  the  guns,  savage  and  menacing. 

Quite  suddenly  she  broke  down.  Bowing  her  proud 
head  in  her  hands  she  wept  bitterly. 

Marie  stood  beside  her,  silent,  until  just  as  sud 
denly  she  gained  control  of  herself  again.  The  white 
head  rose  proudly,  the  bright  brown  eyes  shone 
bravely  through  their  tears. 

"I  am  glad  she  has  gone,"  she  said.  "I  would  not 
have  it  otherwise.  She  must  go  to  help  the  man  she 
loves,  if  she  can!  I'm  glad  she  was  brave  enough 
to  go." 

Marie  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  How  fine  she 
was,  how  strong  and  true.  Why  could  she  not  have 
been  as  brave  as  this?  She  saw  herself  as  she  had 
been,  a  pitiful,  weak  creature,  almost  ready  to  sell 
her  soul  to  tie  herself  like  a  millstone  about  the  neck 
of  the  man  she  loved.  She  knew  that  even  now  she 
was  dreading  the  scorn  she  would  see  in  this  kind  face 
when  she  knew  all  the  truth  concerning  her.  But 
she  thought  of  Gerome,  with  his  lofty  ideals;  she 
thought  of  Paulette  forgetting  her  dread  of  the 
horrors  "out  there,"  taking  her  young  life  into  her 
hands  willingly,  eagerly,  to  serve,  if  she  could,  both 
France  and  the  man  she  loved,  and  she  knew  that  she, 
too,  would  accept  her  martyrdom  gladly  for  the  cause 
that  was  theirs. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  long  road  that  led  through  the  village  and 
on  into  Sains  lay  before  Paulette  like  an  unexplored 
country.  The  familiar  smoothness  was  gone,  cut  into 
by  heavy  army  wagons  and  many  marching  feet.  The 
fields  themselves  that  bordered  its  dusty  edges  were 
trampled  and  bare.  Even  the  tall  poplars,  standing 
like  sentinels  along  its  way,  were  draggled  and  un 
kempt. 

When  the  gates  closed  on  her,  Paulette  drew  a 
quick  breath  as  she  looked  about  her.  How  often 
she  had  ridden  through  the  green  shadows  of  these 
familiar  lanes  with  Maurice;  now  the  difference 
frightened  her. 

She  turned  to  look  at  the  gray  towers  where  they 
showed  above  the  trees.  Would  she  ever  see  them 
again,  she  wondered?  Poor  little  Paulette,  the  way 
before  her  was  a  long  and  weary  one,  but  she  knew 
if  she  were  only  in  time  nothing  else  mattered. 

Resolutely  she  turned  her  face  away  from  her  be 
loved  home  and  started  on  her  journey.  The  muffled 
roar  of  the  guns  which  had  been  coming  to  them  ever 
since  the  war  began  seemed  deeper,  more  menacing 
now  that  she  was  outside  the  shelter  of  the  chateau 
walls,  but  until  she  neared  the  village,  the  road  was 
deserted.  She  hurried  down  the  pretty  little  street 
that  wound  among  the  houses.  Here  and  there  sol 
diers  lounged  against  the  doorsteps  and  gazed 

curiously  at  her  under  their  caps.    Once  she  flattened 

262 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  263 

herself  against  a  wall  to  let  a  company  swing  by 
through  the  narrow  street.  Once  she  stumbled  out 
of  the  way  of  an  automobile  filled  with  officers.  Once 
a  woman  leaned  out  of  an  upper  window  and  waved 
to  her  as  she  passed,  but  without  turning  her  head 
Paulette  hurried  on. 

At  the  tiny  railroad  station  she  found  the  plat 
form  crowded  with  soldiers,  a  detachment  of  men 
waiting  to  be  sent  along  the  line.  The  officer  in 
charge,  a  tall  smooth-faced  youngster,  greeted  her 
politely.  She  showed  him  her  orders  and  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  stop  off  at  Sains.  He  piloted  her  down 
the  platform,  alongside  of  which  there  stood  little 
gray  box-cars.  Out  of  the  windows  crowded  round 
heads,  black,  brown,  yellow;  laughing,  joking,  smok 
ing. 

But  with  all  the  willingness  in  the  world,  there  was 
no  corner  for  her,  and  she  was  just  turning  away 
disappointed  when  a  gray  motor  ambulance  came 
alongside  the  platform.  The  driver  called  out,  seeing 
her  uniform: 

"There's  room  for  you,"  he  said  cheerily,  reaching 
out  a  helping  hand. 

"I  have  an  important  message  for  the  commanding 
officer  at  Sains,"  said  Paulette.  "Will  you  take  me 
there  as  quickly  as  possible?" 

She  climbed  up  to  the  seat  beside  him.  The 
ambulance  turned  about  and  as  it  swung  into  top 
speed  the  soldiers  in  the  little  cars  waved  their  caps 
to  them. 

The  driver  and  his  orderly  laughed  and  joked  as 
the  machine  sped  along  and  tried  to  draw  her  into 


264  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

their  conversation,  quite  as  though  it  were  a  pleasure 
excursion  they  were  having. 

Outside  the  village  the  road  wound  steeply  up  a 
hill  and  then  dipped  in  a  great  curve  down  to  the 
river  bank. 

She  began  to  see  more  and  more  frequently  the 
work  of  the  guns  which  up  to  now  she  had  only 
heard.  Deep  furrows  cut  into  the  fields  by  exploding 
shells,  ruined  barns  with  great  gaping  holes  in  their 
sides,  farm  houses,  roofless,  with  empty,  staring 
windows.  She  could  see  the  dust  of  the  supply  trains 
crawling  along  the  horizon,  and  occasionally  the 
white  cloud  of  a  bursting  shell. 

Presently  the  ambulance  drew  up  at  a  field  hos 
pital.  Nurses  robed  like  herself  hurried  from  one  to 
another  of  the  shattered  forms  lying  in  the  straw. 
Doctors  with  tired  faces  went  silently  to  and  fro. 
Paulette's  heart  shrank  from  the  suffering  about  her, 
she  tried  to  shut  from  her  eyes  the  pitiful  sights,  to 
close  her  ears  to  the  moans  and  cries,  but  they 'beat 
against  her  strained  nerves,  almost  breaking  them. 

This  ambulance  was  to  go  no  further.  But  there 
was  a  constant  stream  going  on  toward  Sains.  Into 
one  of  these  she  climbed  and  in  a  moment  they  were 
speeding  on  their  way  again,  past  long  lines  of  sol 
diers,  some  resting  by  the  road,  others  trudging 
rhythmically  along,  their  faces  turned  toward  the 
sound  of  the  guns.  The  line  seemed  unending.  These 
were  the  men  who  were  standing  between  France  and 
unthinkable  disaster. 

How  proud  she  was  of  them!     Her  courage  re- 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  266' 

turned.  Her  nostrils  dilated.  They  represented 
France,  and  she  was  one  of  them! 

This  message  that  she  bore  might  enable  them  to 
inflict  a  blow  upon  the  enemy  that  would  sweep  him 
from  her  beloved  country  forever ! 

At  last,  the  distant  spires  of  Sains  came  in  sight, 
and  her  heart  was  full  of  the  hope  that  she  might 
not  be  too  late. 

Back  at  the  chateau,  a  mother's  heart  was  fol 
lowing  her  with  a  prayer  for  her  safety  and  another 
woman  paced  restlessly  up  and  down,  pausing  fre 
quently  at  the  window  to  look  with  straining  eyes 
toward  Sains,  hoping,  praying  with  her  whole  soul 
that  she  would  reach  there  in  time. 

At  Draise,  not  many  miles  away,  a  great  army  was 
gathering  quietly,  secretly,  waiting  for  the  dawn  and 
success,  while  here,  toward  the  ancient  spires  which 
were  their  guide,  another  army  in  field  gray  and 
spiked  helmets  was  directing  its  guns;  and  between 
them,  on  the  long  stretch  of  dusty  road,  cut  and 
slashed  by  army  wagons  and  many  marching  feet,  the 
ambulance  sped  the  girl  on  her  way,  the  love  of  one  of 
this  world  of  men  filling  her  heart,  a  prayer  on  her 
lips  that  the  message  she  carried  might  bring  victory. 

When  they  drew  up  at  the  gates  of  Sains,  Paulette's 
new  uniform  was  dusty  and  soiled.  The  tall  spires 
of  the  cathedral  and  the  red  roofs  of  the  houses 
sparkled  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  as  she  entered  the 
town.  Here  and  there  the  walls  lay  in  crumbling 
heaps,  reminders  of  the  German  shells.  Near  the 
gate  several  soldiers  were  lounging.  One  man,  his 
cap  pulled  low  over  his  eyes,  his  rifle  against  his 
shoulder,  paced  back  and  forth. 


266  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

The  sergeant  in  command  approached  her. 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go,  Mademoiselle?"  he 
asked  politely. 

"I  must  go  to  Headquarters.  I  am  to  see  the 
officer  in  command  there.  It  is  very  important !" 

The  sergeant  called  one  of  the  men. 

"Guerin,"  he  said,  "conduct  this  lady  to  Head 
quarters.  See  that  she  is  taken  care  of.  Under 
stand?" 

The  man  saluted. 

"This  way,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  they 
hurried  down  one  street,  across  another,  and  through 
a  ruined  archway,  riddled  by  German  shot.  Some 
times  they  were  obliged  to  scramble  over  heaps  of 
brick  and  mortar  and  broken  glass  where  some  shell 
had  struck.  Presently  they  came  out  into  the  market 
place.  The  broad,  open  space  was  deserted,  save  for 
the  sentries  pacing  to  and  fro.  Around  the  fountain 
in  the  center  were  piled  heavy  burlap  bags,  evidently 
filled  with  grain.  The  Hotel  de  Ville,  which  formed 
one  side  of  the  square,  had  part  of  its  roof  gone,  and 
a  heap  of  dust  and  mortar  lay  piled  against  one  side. 
The  Cathedral,  opposite,  whose  spires  had  been  their 
guide  all  day,  was  battered  and  crumpled,  a  great 
empty  space  where  the  beautiful  glass  of  the  rose 
window  had  been. 

At  the  door  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  a  sentry  chal 
lenged  them.  There  was  a  whispered  word  with  her 
guide.  The  man  looked  at  her  sharply  and  saluted. 

"Pass,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said. 

They  stumbled  up  a  dark  stair,  and  across  a  wide, 
dusty  hall  lined  with  doors,  closed  and  bolted  for  the 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  267 

most  part.  At  the  far  end,  Guerin  bade  her  halt  and 
rapped  loudly  on  the  panel  of  a  door  standing  partly 
ajar. 

"Entrez,"  called  a  hoarse  voice,  and  he  pushed  it 
open  with  a  jerk  of  his  elbow  and  motioned  her  to 
enter. 

Paulette  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  man  with  thick  iron- 
gray  hair  was  writing  at  a  table.  At  his  side  stood 
an  orderly  waiting,  and  under  a  window  a  young 
officer  sat  before  a  telegraph  instrument. 

He  rose  as  they  entered  and  came  forward. 

"Well?"  he  said  and  Guerin  saluted  stiffly. 

"I  am  the  daughter  of  General  de  la  Motte.  I 
have  important  information  for  the  commanding 
officer,"  began  Paulette. 

He  glanced  at  her  keenly  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  to  the  man  at  the  table. 

"General,"  he  said,  "Mademoiselle  de  la  Motte  has 
something  of  importance  to  say  to  you !" 

The  iron-gray  head  lifted  and  Paulette  saw  a  finely 
formed  face  with  a  firm,  resolute  mouth  and  a  pair  of 
very  keen  steel-gray  eyes. 

He  rose  and  bowed. 

"Mademoiselle  de  la  Motte?  By  any  chance  of 
the  family  of  General  Phillipe  de  la  Motte?" 

"His  daughter,  sir !" 

A  bright  smile  lighted  his  face,  relieving  it  of  all 
its  sternness.  He  extended  his  hand. 

"This  is  a  great  pleasure,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said ; 
"pray  be  seated  and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you !" 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  prefer  to  stand. 


268  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

What  I  have  to  tell  you  is  very  important!"  She 
paused  for  a  moment  and  the  General  fixed  his  keen 
eyes  upon  hers.  "I  have  just  come  from  the  chateau. 
I  received  information  this  morning  that  the  enemy  is 
to  attack  Sains  to-morrow  at  daybreak." 

The  General  was  a  man  long  schooled  to  mask  his 
emotions,  and  his  face  gave  no  sign  except  a  barely 
perceptible  tightening  of  the  muscles  about  the  mouth 
and  a  deeper  gleam  in  his  clear  eyes. 

"This  is  important,  Mademoiselle.  Are  you  sure 
that  it  is  authentic?" 

"I  have  every  reason  to  believe  so,  Monsieur." 

"How  long  have  you  known  it?"  he  asked. 

"Just  a  few  hours,"  she  said.  "I  came  here  as  fast 
as  I  could!"  v 

"You  say  you  received  this  information  at  the 
chateau  this  morning?"  She  bowed.  "Can  you  tell 
me  how  this  became  known  to  you?" 

"I  regret,  Monsieur,  that  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
do  so!" 

"How  many  others  know  of  this?" 

"One  other,  Monsieur." 

"The  source  of  your  information?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

He  looked  searchingly  into  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  sure  this  other  is  loyal  to  our  cause?" 

The  girl  paused.  Through  her  mind  ran  the  events 
of  the  past  few  hours. 

Her  brother's  wife  was  of  the  enemy's  blood.  She 
had  hated  and  distrusted  her,  and  this  morning  her 
suspicions  had  seemed  to  be  confirmed.  Was  she 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  269 

sure  of  her  loyalty?  Marie's  eyes  seemed  to  look 
into  hers.  Again  she  heard  her  voice  saying, 

"The  cause  you  love  is  as  dear  to  me  as  to  you !" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  General's. 

"The  other  is  loyal !"  she  said. 

He  turned  from  her  and  paced  the  room  thought 
fully,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  brows  contracted. 

"If  what  you  say  is  true,"  he  said  at  last,  pausing 
before  her,  "then  you  have  done  France  a  great 
service.  Wait  here  a  moment."  He  crossed  the 
room,  and  spoke  in  an  undertone  to  the  officer  in 
waiting,  who  saluted  and  went  out,  accompanied  by 
the  orderly.  Then  he  turned  to  Paulette,  smiling. 
"In  the  name  of  France,  I  thank  you,  Mademoiselle, 
for  what  you  have  done  to-day.  Can  I  be  of  any 
service  to  you?" 

Paulette  looked  at  him  piteously. 

"Is  there  any  news  of  Captain  le  Cerf  ?"  she  asked 
eagerly.  "We  have  had  word  that  he  had  escaped 
from  Belgium  and  was  to  arrive  here  to-day.  He  is 
my  fiance,  Monsieur." 

The  General  smiled  kindly. 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said;  "the 
Captain  and  his  family  are  dear  friends  of  mine.  I 
have  good  news  for  you !  He  has  arrived  safely." 

He  touched  a  bell  and  an  orderly  entered.  There 
was  a  whispered  word  or  two,  and  the  man,  saluting, 
left  the  room. 

Paulette's  eyes  glowed.  All  sense  of  fatigue  left 
her.  She  would  see  him  soon.  Her  heart  throbbed 
Suffocatingly. 

The  General  looked  at  her  benevolently.     With  a 


270  MOTHERS  OP  MEN 

Frenchman's  love  of  romance  which  is  never  absent, 
even  in  the  face  of  grave  danger,  he  watched  the 
•flush  on  her  cheeks,  her  parted  lips,  and  with  a  sigh 
for  his  own  lost  youth,  he  picked  up  his  pen  again 
and  bent  over  his  writing. 

Presently,  heavy  steps  came  down  the  hall  and  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  called  the  General  without  raising  his 
head,  and  the  young  officer  reentered,  followed  by  a 
slim  figure  in  a  soiled  uniform. 

Paulette  leaped  to  her  feet.  With  a  cry  she  flew 
across  the  room  and  into  the  arms  of  Maurice.  His 
drawn  face  was  almost  as  gray  as  his  eyes,  his 
shoulders  thin,  though  now  squared  with  hope  and 
determination,  his  cheeks  hollow  and  heavily  lined. 
There  were  purple  shadows  under  his  eyes  and  his 
hands  shook  pitifully  as  he  caressed  her  hair. 

The  General  patted  his  shoulder* 

"Sit  down,  Captain,"  he  said  kindly;  "you're  not 
strong  yet,  sit  down,"  and  Maurice  let  them  lead  him 
to  a  chair. 

Paulette  knelt  beside  him,  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Maurice,  Maurice,  I've  missed  you  so,"  she  mur 
mured  ;  "you're  not  going  to  leave  me  ever  again !" 

He  held  his  lips  tenderly  against  her  forehead. 

General  de  Line  stood  looking  down  on  them. 

"Captain,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  you  are  strong 
enough  to  travel  to-night?  I  must  get  you  both 
away  from  Sains  as  soon  as  possible." 

Something  in  his  tone  made  Maurice  look  up  at 
him  inquiringly. 

"We  have  had  news  that  the  enemy  are  to  attack 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  271 

here  at  dawn,  you  must  be  safely  away  by  then. 
That  is  the  least  France  can  do  in  return  for  the 
service  Mademoiselle  has  rendered,"  and  he  bowed 
gallantly  to  the  girl. 

Maurice  looked  from  one  to  the  other  not  under 
standing. 

"Mademoiselle  will  explain,"  said  the  General, 
smiling. 

Maurice  put  his  feeble  arms  close  about  the  girl's 
trembling  shoulders. 

"My  dearest  one,"  he  murmured,  "I  am  so  proud 
to  know  that  you  have  served  France.  You  must  tell 
me  everything.  We  must  be  married  at  once !  And 
then,  are  you  willing  to  go  with  me,  wreck  that  I 
am,  wherever  I  go?" 

She  looked  at  him  adoringly. 

"How  can  you  ask  me?"  she  cried;  "don't  you 
know?" 

Le  Cerf  rose  shakily  to  his  feet. 

"My  General,"  he  said,  "Mademoiselle  and  I  are  to 
be  married  at  once,  if  you  can  make  it  possible  to 
have  the  cure  here,  and  then " 

"And  then,"  finished  the  General  with  a  fatherly 
smile,  "you  will  go  with  Captain  Merton  to  Calais; 
he  drives  there  within  the  hour  with  these  despatches. 
You  will  cross  to  England  where  your  parents  are. 
I  have  a  letter  from  them.  They  write  they  have 
taken  a  house,  and,  of  course,  are  most  anxious  to 
see  you.  You  will  stay  with  them  until  you  are 
strong." 

Maurice's  eyes  held  Paulette's. 

"Will  you?"  he  asked. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

She  looked  down  at  her  nurse's  uniform. 

"I  have  been  ordered  to  St.  Quentin  for  duty,"  she 
faltered. 

The  General  broke  in  hastily : 

"I  will  adjust  that,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said 
kindly. 

A  quick  vision  of  her  mother,  her  father,  her  home, 
flashed  across  her  mind,  but  she  looked  up  into 
Maurice's  eyes,  infinite  love  in  hers.  Where  he  was, 
was  home  to  her.  He  needed  her.  She  asked  herself 
no  further  questions. 

She  went  through  the  hurried  marriage  like  one 
in  a  dream.  She  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  black- 
frocked  cure,  of  the  General  standing  on  one  side  of 
him,  and  Maurice  who  had  left  her  so  short  a  time 
ago,  strong  and  virile,  shaking  against  her  arm. 

She  scarcely  remembered  the  words  or  their  re 
sponses;  she  had  a  dim  recollection  of  the  closing 
lines  of  the  ceremony,  of  Maurice's  lips  on  hers.  Then 
came  the  quick  run  down  the  dark  stairs  and  into  the 
waiting  car,  the  wild  flight  through  the  growing 
dusk  and  into  the  deepening  night,  stopping  every 
now  and  then  to  answer  the  challenging  sentries.  She 
dared  not  think  of  what  the  morning  would  bring. 
She  could  only  hope  that  the  message  she  had  brought 
had  been  in  time  to  be  of  service.  Her  memory  still 
held  the  vivid  picture  of  her  sister-in-law's  agonized 
face  when  she  had  hurried  her  off  to  Sains.  How 
could  Marie  have  known,  she  wondered?  Who  had 
it  been  in  their  own  loyal  household  who  had  stolen 
the  note?  Her  head  ached  with  the  endless  repetition 
of  her  questions  to  which  she  could  find  no  answer. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  273 

She  looked  down  on  the  dear  head  pillowed  on  her 
arm  and  drew  the  heavy  army  blanket  closer  about 
them  both,  thanking  God  that  he  was  safe. 

Toward  dawn  they  came  in  sight  of  Calais.  The 
tall,  ugly  spires  of  Notre  Dame  showed  gray  against 
the  brightening  sky.  There  was  a  brief  pause  at  the 
gates  of  the  fortress,  a  short  parley  with  some  soldiers 
and  one  or  two  keen-eyed  officers — another  quick  dash 
across  the  Place  d'Arme  to  the  New  Harbor. 

Captain  Merton  shook  their  hands  cheerily  as  he 
left  them. 

With  the  heavy  army  blanket  as  their  only  lug 
gage,  they  boarded  the  boat  for  Dover. 

Her  face  was  turned  away  from  France,  the  water 
slipping  under  the  keel  of  the  Channel  boat  was 
carrying  her  from  everything  she  had  ever  loved, 
carrying  her  and  the  man  who  was  to  fill  her  life  from 
now  on,  into  a  strange  land. 

When  she  had  wrapped  Maurice  in  the  warm  folds, 
Paulette  sat  with  his  hands  close  clasped  in  hers.  Just 
as  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun  sparkled  on  the 
white  cliffs  of  Dover,  showing  vaguely  on  the  horizon 
eighteen  miles  away  across  the  Channel,  borne  on  the 
fresh  salt  breeze,  came  a  deep-throated,  far-away 
roar.  She  stiffened  in  her  chair  and  bent  her  ear  to 
listen. 

The  attack  had  come!  But  her  warning  would 
render  it  futile.  Her  trust  in  Marie  was  vindicated. 

Her  heart  swelled  with  pride.  Her  lips  murmured 
a  prayer  of  thankfulness,  her  fingers  clung  closer  to 
the  feeble  ones  they  held.  For  the  first  time  in  many 
months  she  was  at  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

IN  the  chateau,  Madame  and  Marie,  together  with 
the  old  Breton  woman,  were  the  only  ones  left.  After 
Paulette's  departure  they  searched  for  Antoine,  but 
found  that  he  had  gone,  as  Marie  knew  he  would  be. 

The  long  day  had  worn  away  somehow.  Madame 
went  up  to  her  room  and  shut  herself  in.  Marie's 
nerves,  almost  at  the  breaking-point,  sent  her 
feverishly  wandering  about  the  house  and  grounds, 
up  and  down  and  back  and  forth,  never  seeming  to 
find  a  place  to  rest.  Once  or  twice  she  came  back  to 
the  gate-house  and  tried  to  talk  to  Angele,  but  the 
girl,  her  eyes  red  and  swollen,  her  face  mottled  with 
weeping,  splashed  and  scrubbed  the  already  im 
maculate  floor  in  a  frenzy  of  industry,  her  conversa 
tion  limited  to  monosyllables,  and  Marie  turned  back 
again  to  her  own  room. 

She  had  brought  with  her  from  Paris  materials  for 
the  little  layette  that  would  be  needed,  but  her  hands 
shook  so  over  the  tiny  garments  that  the  needle  ran 
deeply  into  her  finger  and  the  blood  stained  the  white 
linen.  She  stared  at  the  red  spot  with  wild  eyes. 
What  a  horrible  omen,  she  thought,  what  a  frightful 
thing.  Blood  stains  on  her  baby's  clothes !  Did  that 
mean  that  her  efforts  at  reparation  had  come  too 
late? 

She  threw  aside  the  bit  of  linen  as  though  it 
scorched  her  fingers,  and  fell  on  her  knees  in  agony. 

"Holy  Mother,"  she  began.  Surely  the  blessed 
274 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  275 

Virgin  would  hear  a  woman  who  longed  so  sincerely 
to  right  whatever  wrong  she  had  done. 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees  it  was  with  re 
newed  courage  and  hope.  The  one  poignant  remorse 
that  stabbed  her  was  that  when  Gerome  had  told  her 
of  his  love,  she  had  not  bared  to  him  her  life  in 
Vienna.  How  much  sorrow,  how  many  endless  days 
of  regret  are  caused  by  the  first  deception  practised 
from  a  false  sense  of  pride  or  for  the  purpose  of 
hiding  some  truth  about  ourselves  which  if  disclosed 
might  cause  us  at  the  time  embarrassment,  or  pain. 
Often  whatever  is  gained  is  paid  for  a  hundredfold 
by  the  humiliation  and  grief  that  follows  when  the 
truth  must  be  told. 

To  Marie,  pacing  her  room,  came  the  full  realiza 
tion  of  this.  If  she  had  only  confided  in  Gerome,  he 
might  have  forgiven  her  and  they  would  have  been 
almost  as  happy  as  they  had  been,  without  this 
dreadful  suffering  being  possible.  She  could  then 
have  denounced  Von  Pfaffen  when  she  had  found  her 
self  face  to  face  with  him  again. 

The  burning  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks,  and 
with  all  her  soul  she  prayed  to  be  given  the  oppor 
tunity  to  tell  her  husband  everything. 

Toward  evening  Madame  knocked  at  her  door. 

"Let  us  go  down  to  the  salon,  dear,"  she  said.  "I 
shall  bring  little  Angele  up  to  the  house  and  we 
will  stay  together  to-night." 

"Yes,  Maman,"  answered  Marie,  through  the 
door ;  "I  shall  be  down  directly." 

As  Madame's  footsteps  died  away,  she  hastily 
smoothed  her  hair  and  refreshed  her  face  with  water, 


276  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

then  went  downstairs  to  join  the  others  in  the  long 
vigil  that  was  before  them. 

All  night  long  the  voice  of  the  guns  rose  in  deafen 
ing  crescendo,  making  sleep  impossible,  while  on  the 
horizon,  orange,  crimson,  and  mauve  flashes  broke 
the  darkness. 

All  night  long  the  four  women  sat  together  in  the 
little  salon,  waiting  for  what  they  dared  not  put  into 
words. 

Madame  sat  silent  and  tragic  in  her  great  chair, 
her  delicate  hands  clasped  loosely  in  her  lap.  Her 
eyes  looked  far  away,  beyond  to-night,  beyond  to 
morrow,  even  beyond  this  world. 

Angele  whimpered  in  her  corner. 

Marie  staring  from  one  to  the  other,  wondered 
what  they  would  say  when  they  knew  everything. 

The  roar  of  the  guns  was  incessant,  rolling, 
thundering,  like  mighty  waves  beating  against 
granite  cliffs,  deafening,  appalling,  filling  all  the  air 
with  an  agony  of  sound.  Then  just  before  dawn, 
suddenly,  as  though  a  giant  hand  had  intervened, 
the  tumult  ceased  and  was  followed  by  a  breathless 
hush.  The  women  looked  at  one  another.  There 
was  something  in  this  unusual  stillness  that  was 
ominous,  fearful,  more  terrible  than  had  been  the 
pandemonium  of  sound. 

Far  away  a  cock  crowed  and  was  answered  by 
another.  The  wind  stirred  among  the  leaves  and  set 
them  to  whispering.  Then  they  heard  a  distant,  in 
termittent  rattle,  sharp,  spiteful,  venomous,  unmis 
takable  to  anyone  who  had  ever  heard  it.  It  was 
the  sound  of  rifles  and  machine  guns.  Instantly  they 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  277 

understood.  That  which  shot  and  shell  had  begun, 
the  bayonet  was  to  finish.  The  artillery  had  ceased, 
to  permit  the  men  to  come  out  of  the  trenches !  To 
go  over  the  top !  To  charge ! 

As  the  light  grew,  the  staccato  rattle  of  the  dis 
tant  rifle  fire  was  interrupted  every  now  and  again 
by  a  dull  boom.  The  enemy  was  answering. 

Several  times  a  terrible  detonation  roared  in  their 
ears,  the  windows  shook  with  the  concussion,  the  very 
rafters  of  the  old  chateau  shivered  and  trembled, 
and  across  the  fields  a  great  column  of  black  smoke 
and  dirt  spouted  wildly  in  the  air  where  a  shell  had 
struck  and  burst. 

Madame,  standing  tall  and  erect  by  the  window, 
vibrated  with  every  sound  of  the  distant  battle.  She 
was  fighting  by  the  side  of  her  men,  this  woman, 
reared  in  luxury,  in  whose  veins  ran  the  blood  of  her 
country's  best,  whose  indomitable  will  lifted  her 
above  all  difficulties,  leveled  all  obstacles  and  knew 
no  fear.  A  worthy  mother  of  a  noble  son ! 

Old  Nanine  sat  dry-eyed,  seemingly  unconscious 
of  the  sounds  of  the  conflict  about  them.  Centuries 
of  passive  obedience,  of  unreasoning  sacrifice,  had 
left  its  heritage  of  outward  indifference.  Stolid, 
emotionless,  she  waited,  but  in  the  core  of  her  heart 
burned  the  unquenchable  flame  of  mother-love  for  the 
last  son,  out  there,  where  flesh  and  blood  was  holding 
its  unequal  contest  against  steel  and  iron. 

Silent,  with  white  cheeks,  and  lips  tightly  com 
pressed  sat  Marie,  every  nerve  strained  taut,  as  her 
imagination  carried  her  into  the  battle.  Each  shot 
that  was  fired  seemed  aimed  at  her  own  heart,  each 


278  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

sound  in  the  air  shrieked  aloud  of  some  calamity  to 
Gerome.  She  knew  that  she  would  gladly  have  un 
dergone  whatever  tortures  could  be  given  her  to 
know  that  he  would  come  back  to  her,  maimed,  torn, 
bleeding,  no  matter  how,  but  only  come  back  to  her ! 

As  the  reverberations  grew  louder  and  more 
terrifying,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  went  to  the 
window  beside  Madame. 

"God  give  them  victory !"  she  breathed  at  last. 

Madame  stared  at  the  ridge  of  the  hill  where  the 
road  wound  over  to  Draise. 

"My  husband  is  there,"  she  said,  with  calm  exulta 
tion,  "my  brothers  are  there ;  my  son  is  there." 

Marie  flung  out  her  arms,  an  agony  of  longing  in 
her  eyes. 

"Gerome,"  she  cried,  "Gerome !" 

"And  somewhere  out  among  it  all,"  went  on 
Madame,  in  that  strange,  vibrant  voice,  her  eyes  never 
leaving  the  horizon,  "somewhere  out  there  is  my  little 
Paulette,  my  baby,  gone  from  our  shelter  to  the  man 
she  loves." 

"She  is  taking  to  him  much  more  than  her  love!" 
murmured  Marie,  but  Madame  did  not  seem  to  hear 
her. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  wondering,  "even  Antoine  is 
gone !" 

Marie  closed  her  eyes  with  a  shudder  of  horror. 
Antoine!  How  she  loathed  even  the  mention  of  his 
name.  His  going  had  brought  about  all  this!  For 
the  thousandth  time  she  asked  herself  if  it  would  not 
have  been  better  to  have  denounced  him  at  once. 

"Antoine   left   without   a   word,  without   a  sign. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  279 

Even  he  must  fight  for  his  country,"  went  on 
Madarae's  steady  voice. 

Marie  rose  to  her  feet  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"When  will  it  be  over?"  she  cried.  "When  will  it 
be  over?" 

Madame  turned  her  eyes  from  the  ridge  which  lay 
incongruously  sparkling  in  the  early  sunshine,  while 
the  air  shook  with  the  terrific  thunder  of  the  guns, 
shouting  their  message  of  death  and  destruction. 

"We  women  must  watch  and  wait,"  she  said. 
"Daughters  of  men !  Wives  of  men !  Mothers  of 
men !" 

Marie  stopped  in  her  restless  pacing. 

"Mothers  of  men  t"  she  whispered.  When  the  day 
of  reckoning  came,  what  would  she  say  to  Gerome's 
child,  if  it  should  be  a  son?  Would  he  be  able  to 
look  into  her  eyes  with  pride,  or  would  her  memory 
be  hateful  to  him? 

Madame  looked  at  her  with  tender  understanding. 

"It  is  for  that,  dear,"  she  said,  "we  women  must 
watch  and  wait !" 

To  watch  and  wait !  If  that  were  all !  This  great 
struggle  must  end  some  day.  And  to  each  of  these 
women  would  be  given  her  measure  of  sorrow.  The 
agony  of  suspense  would  be  over. 

But  for  her  it  was  different. 

No  matter  what  the  consequences  were  of  her  effort 
to  circumvent  the  enemy,  the  fact  of  her  having  with 
held  the  truth  from  her  husband  might  never  cease  to 
bear  its  harvest  of  evil. 

She  threw  herself  face  down  again  on  the  couch, 


280  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

her  shoulders  heaving  convulsively,  her  slight  frame 
torn  with  the  bitterness  of  her  sorrow. 

Nanine  looked  at  her  stolidly. 

"There  are  others  of  us,"  she  said,  "who  have  our 
griefs." 

"Poor  Nanine,"  said  Madame  sympathetically, 
"you  have  given  two  sons,  and  now  the  youngest, 
Jacques,  is  out  there !" 

The  old  woman's  eyes  were  dry,  her  face  was  set. 

"Yes,  Madame,"  she  said;  "what  are  women  for? 
In  peaceful  times  the  country  takes  our  money  for 
the  army,  and  when  war  comes  we  must  give  our  men 
who've  earned  the  money !" 

Marie  lifted  herself  from  among  the  pillows  and 
stared  at  her  wonderingly  through  her  red,  swollen 
lids. 

"And  you'd  give  all?"  she  asked,  "everything  you 
care  for,  everything,  for  your  country?" 

"But  yes,"  the  old  woman's  answer  was  a  matter 
of  course ;  "what  else  is  there  to  do  ?" 

"We  all  would !"  Madame  spoke  with  the  voice  of 
France.  "Our  men  are  not  fighting  for  material 
gain,  but  in  defense  of  our  homes.  The  enemy's  heel 
is  on  the  breast  of  our  beloved  country,  and  to  re 
move  his  hated  tread  that  defaces  our  sacred  soil,  we 
will  give  our  loved  ones  to  the  last  man !" 

Her  words  woke  in  Marie's  heart  the  eager,  breath 
less  emotion  that  comes  into  being  with  the  sound  of 
martial  music. 

"I'm  beginning  to  understand  what  all  that  means," 
she  said.  "This  wonderful  love  that  came  to  me 
seemed  greater  than  anything  in  the  world;  it  made 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  281 

me  happier  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  being.  If  this 
cause  for  which  he  is  fighting  is  more  glorious,  I  want 
to  give  him  to  it.  I  want  to  make  the  sacrifice.  But 
oh,  it's  hard,  it's  terribly  hard !" 

Madame  put  her  arm  about  the  shaking  shoulders. 

"You  are  not  strong,"  she  said,  gently  smoothing 
the  girl's  hair  as  she  let  her  weep  against  her 
shoulder.  After  a  moment  she  went  on,  "Don't  you 
think  that  I  know  the  wonder,  the  beauty  of  a  great 
love?  Don't  you  think  I  realize  what  it  means? 
Every  woman  does,  from  Nanine  here,  and  little 
Angele,  to  the  greatest  queen,  but  each  of  us  sees  it 
differently.  Real  love  is  unselfish,  it  makes  you  want 
to  give  as  well  as  receive.  It  will  not  let  you  choke 
with  clinging  arms !" 

The  old  woman  had  followed  her  mistress'  words 
with  wonder,  not  understanding,  but  feeling  the 
thought  that  lay  back  of  them  with  the  intuition  of 
universal  womanhood. 

"Even  when  a  poor  peasant  woman  like  me  cares 
for  her  man  like  I  cared  for  mine,"  she  said,  "you 
fight  for  him,  with  him,  but  you  don't  hang  onto  his 
coat-tails  when  he  wants  to  fight  for  himself." 

Madame  rose  and  crossed  to  the  window,  where  she 
stood  looking  in  the  direction  from  whence  came  the 
incessant  thunder  of  the  guns. 

"I'd  rather  have  my  boy  die  out  there,"  she  said 
proudly,  "fighting  in  defense  of  his  country,  than  to 
know  he  did  not  have  the  will  to  go." 

Marie  stumbled  across  the  room  and  threw  herself 
at  Madame's  feet,  her  arms  about  her  knees. 


282  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"You  wonderful  woman,"  she  cried.  "His  mother, 
can  you  forgive  me?  How  different  everything  would 
have  been  if  my  own  mother  had  lived !" 

Madame  tried  to  raise  her. 

"Marie  dear,"  she  pleaded,  "don't;  there  is  noth 
ing  you  have  done,  excepting  love  my  boy  too  much. 
Come,  don't  ask  my  forgiveness  for  that !"  but  Marie 
clung  about  her  knees,  still  weeping  bitterly. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  sobbed,  "you  can't  know 
how  much  I  love  him !  And  I  am  so  unworthy !" 

Madame  stooped  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet. 

"You  must  not  feel  unhappy  because  you  are  of 
our  enemies'  blood,"  she  said ;  "no  one  questions  your 
loyalty  to  our  cause !" 

But  Marie  covered  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  sounds 
that  grew  louder  and  louder  every  minute,  and  sank 
miserably  into  a  chair. 

Angele's  fingers  were  busy  again  with  her  rosary, 
her  lips  with  a  prayer,  and  old  Nanine  crossed  her 
self. 

At  the  window  Madame  stood  watching,  her  soul 
in  her  eyes.  Over  the  brow  of  the  hill  long  lines  of 
gray  motors  were  crawling,  on  the  sides  of  which  she 
could  just  make  out  a  blood-red  cross. 

A  spasm  of  pain  touched  her  heart.  The  never- 
ending  line  of  ambulances,  what  agony,  what  misery 
they  carried.  An  hour  ago  splendid  young  man 
hood,  now  shattered  wrecks ! 

And  going  in  the  opposite  direction  swung  a  long 
blue  column  of  marching  men.  Strong,  virile,  filled 
with  courage !  Forward !  Onward !  For  France ! 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  283 

Faintly,  through  the  dull  roaring,  came  the  sound 
of  the  Marseillaise. 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  them  in  an  ecstasy 
of  patriotism.  Her  voice  clear  and  sweet  as  a  bugle. 

"March  on,"  she  cried.  "March  on — to  victory  or 
death!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  morning  wore  on.  The  firing  grew  nearer, 
louder,  more  insistent.  Madame,  watching  at  the 
window,  suddenly  uttered  a  cry.  The  others  rushed 
to  her  side. 

Outside  on  the  road  an  ambulance  had  stopped, 
gone  on  again,  and  through  the  gates  came  two  sol 
diers  bearing  a  stretcher. 

Slowly,  tenderly,  they  carried  their  burden 
toward  the  house. 

The  women  stared  through  the  window  with  an 
agony  of  apprehension,  each  with  the  name  of  the 
one  she  loved  best  trembling  on  her  lips.  Was  it 
Gerome — the  General — Jacques  ? 

The  men  entered  through  the  long  window  the 
women  opened  for  them,  and  laid  their  burden  on  the 
couch.  As  they  did  so,  the  fainting  man  revived  and 
lifted  his  head.  With  a  cry  Nanine  stumbled  to  his 
side. 

"Jacques!  Jacques!  Couldn't  I  save  one  of  the 
three?" 

The  boy  turned  his  eyes  toward  her. 

"I'm  all  right,  mother,"  he  said  bravely. 

The  old  woman  fondled  him,  the  slow  tears  follow 
ing  the  wrinkles  down  her  cheeks. 

"My  boy,"  she  cried,  brokenly,  "my  last  one;  is 
it  bad?" 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  285 

He  turned  his  head  on  the  cushion  she  had  placed 
under  it. 

"I'm  a  sergeant,  mother,"  he  murmured,  his  eyes 
lighting  up. 

Little  Angele  was  standing  staring  down  at  him, 
her  pretty  mouth  quivering,  her  breast  fluttering. 
She  was  afraid,  somehow,  to  speak,  to  call  his  atten 
tion  to  herself. 

Marie  looked  on  helplessly,  with  a  feeling  of  de 
tachment.  She  felt  as  one  in  a  dream.  These  men 
who  had  stared  death  in  the  face  within  so  brief  a 
time,  seemed  unreal  to  her. 

Madame  turned  to  one  of  the  stretcher-bearers. 

"What  is  happening  out  there?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her,  his  eyes,  in  his  square,  mud- 
plastered  face,  bloodshot  from  lack  of  sleep. 

"We  don't  know,  Madame,"  he  said,  removing  his 
cap ;  "we  can't  tell,  we  can  only  hope." 

She  turned  to  the  other  man  and  recoiled  slightly. 

He  wore  the  field-gray  uniform  of  a  German 
private  soldier.  His  face  was  pale  and  expression 
less,  a  red  stubble  covered  his  cheeks  and  chin. 
Under  one  eye  was  a  gash  with  the  blood  blackened 
on  it  and  surrounded  by  purple  discolorations. 
There  was  a  bloody  rag  around  his  closely  cropped 
head,  and  his  spiked  helmet  sat  upon  this  in  a  gro 
tesquely  jaunty  fashion. 

"What  is  this  man  doing  here?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  a  prisoner,  Madame."  The  orderly 
hunched  an  expressive  shoulder  toward  Jacques,  "he 
helped  bring  him  in." 

Madame's  eyes  were  on  the  bloody  bandage. 


286  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"You  are  hurt,  too,"  she  said. 

The  man  smiled,  a  wan,  crooked  smile. 

"Yes,  Madame,"  he  said  in  guttural  French.  "It 
is  not  serious."  The  orderly  frowned  as  he  looked 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"They  both  need  patching  up,"  he  said;  "can  you 
get  water  and  bandages  and  perhaps  something  to 
eat?" 

Nanine  was  still  bending  over  Jacques,  and  Angele, 
too,  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  couch  as  Madame 
turned  to  go. 

Marie  touched  her  arm. 

"Let  me  help,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  dear,  you  go,"  she  said  softly.  It  would  do 
the  girl  good,  she  thought,  to  be  occupied  in  this 
service.  "Bring  water  and  some  food." 

Suddenly  the  pale  face  of  the  German  soldier  went 
a  shade  whiter,  he  staggered  a  step  toward  the 
couch  and  put  out  a  shaking  hand  to  steady  him 
self.  Nanine,  suspicious  of  his  uniform,  made  a  quick 
gesture  of  protection  over  her  wounded  son,  but  the 
boy  looked  up  quickly. 

"He's  all  right,  mother,"  he  said ;  "he's  my  friend." 

"Your  friend,"  said  Madame  in  astonishment.  To 
these  women  the  uniform  this  man  was  wearing  was 
symbolic  of  everything  barbarous. 

Jacques  held  up  a  feeble  hand  and  clasped  the  one 
the  German  held  out  to  him. 

"I  wouldn't  be  here,  if  it  weren't  for  him,"  he  said 
brokenly.  "We  charged  early  this  morning.  We 
reached  their  first  trench.  I  got  this,"  he  laid  his 
free  hand  on  his  side.  "I  didn't  know  anything  for 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  287 

awhile.  When  I  came  to,  the  rest  of  our  boys  had 
gone  on  and  left  me  behind.  God,  I  was  thirsty — I 
tried  to  crawl —  -"  the  horror  of  it  all  twisted  his 
face  in  an  agony  of  memory. 

"Hush,  mon  lapin,  hush,"  whispered  his  mother, 
but  the  boy  went  on: 

"I  tried  to  crawl,"  he  panted ;  "I  couldn't !  Over 
me,  around  me,  beside  me — dead  bodies — every 
where "  He  tightened  his  grasp  on  the  German's 

hand;  "then  he  dragged  himself  over  to  me — he  had 
some  water — I  believe  I  got  most  of  it — he  opened 
his  kit  and  gave  me  first  aid " 

Madame  looked  on  in  astonishment. 

"One  of  the  enemy  to  do  such  a  thing!"  she  won 
dered.  It  was  incredible  to  think  that  two  men  who 
only  so  short  a  time  before  had  been  striving  for  each 
other's  lives  should  now  call  one  another  "friend." 

Through  the  door  came  Marie  with  a  tray  of 
bread  and  coffee,  and  a  basin  of  water  and  some 
bandages. 

The  German  put  his  hand  against  the  bloody  rag 
about  his  head. 

"We  are  not  enemies  now,"  he  said  in  his  guttural 
French,  "only  fellow-sufferers!" 

"Fellow-sufferers,"  Marie  echoed  the  words  from 
the  depth  of  her  heart,  as  she  handed  the  man  a  cup 
of  the  hot  coffee. 

The  German  took  it  with  a  polite  bow. 

"You  are  good  to  me,"  he  said  simply. 

"In  spite  of  the  uniform  you  wear,"  said  Madame, 
"we  will  do  our  best  for  you." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 


288  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"It  is  our  countries  who  are  at  war,"  he  said,  "not 
we !" 

Marie's  eyes  turned  toward  the  far  horizon  where 
the  rumble  of  the  guns  still  thundered  unceasingly. 

"It  is  the  countries  who  are  at  war,"  she  echoed, 
"and  between  them  men's  bodies  and  women's  hearts 
are  broken !" 

Jacques  was  lying  on  his  pillow,  white-faced  and 
with  closed  lids. 

His  mother  leaned  back  on  her  heels  and  looked 
at  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  broke,  "it  is  the 
people  who  suffer." 

Her  mistress'  white  head  raised  itself  proudly. 

"Here  in  France,"  she  said,  "the  people  and  the 
country  are  one.  We  are  fighting  to  preserve  that 
unity." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  Marie  turned 
to  fill  the  German  prisoner's  cup. 

"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

The  man  caught  her  words. 

"You  are  right,  Madame,"  he  said,  "war  is  pitiful ! 
It  is  terrible  and  it  is  unnecessary!" 

Madame  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"You  speak  our  language  well,"  she  said.  The 
tales  of  German  efficiency,  their  ability  to  do  all 
things,  had  not  been  exaggerated. 

"I  was  one  of  the  professors  of  languages  at 
Heidelburg,"  he  said  wistfully.  "I  thought  to  spend 
my  life  in  instruction,  not  destruction." 

Jacques  stirred  at  his  voice. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  289 

"He  was  good  to  me,  mother,"  he  muttered. 

"Yes,  yes,  mon  cheri"  soothed  Nanine.  "I  know! 
Lie  quietly!" 

As  she  spoke  the  thunder  of  the  guns  seemed  to 
come  nearer.  The  women  shuddered  and  the  orderly 
shook  his  head. 

"We  seem  to  be  getting  in  range,"  he  said.  "I 
advise  you  all  to  leave  this  place,  and  go  further  to 
the  rear." 

Nanine's  eyes  were  on  her  son. 

"How  can  we  move  him?"  she  asked. 

"Where  can  we  go?"  questioned  Madame. 

The  orderly  went  to  the  door  and  peered  out. 

"He  will  be  all  right,"  he  said.  "I'll  hail  one  of 
the  passing  ambulances.  It  can  take  us  all  in."  He 
left  the  room  and  hurried  down  the  driveway  to  the 
gate. 

Angele  had  Jacques'  head  against  her  breast  now, 
and  old  Nanine  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  Madame,"  she  pleaded,  "let  us  go  quickly. 
I  must  save  this  one." 

Her  mistress  looked  about  at  the  house  and  garden 
where  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  years,  and 
which,  the  loud  roars  of  bursting  shells  warned  her, 
might  be  laid  in  ruins  at  any  moment. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  resignedly,  "the  General  will 
know  we  have  tried  to  reach  safety.  He  will  under 
stand." 

The  orderly  at  the  gate  had  stopped  a  passing 
ambulance. 

"Hurry,"  he  called. 

"Come,"  said  Nanine  to  the  German,  "help  carry 
him.  Be  careful!  Don't  hurt  him." 


290  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

As  they  started  through  the  door,  the  boy  turned 
and  smiled  into  his  mother's  face. 

"I'm  all  right,  mother,"  he  said,  and  they  went  out 
to  the  waiting  motor,  little  Angele  at  their  heels. 

With  a  feeling  of  utter  hopelessness  Marie  watched 
them  go,  the  empty  coffee  pot  in  one  hand,  the  plate 
of  bread  in  the  other.  All  this  could  mean  only  one 
thing.  The  battle  had  been  lost.  Paulette  had  been 
too  late,  or  had  perished  on  the  way.  Before  her 
wide,  horror-stricken  eyes  was  a  vision  of  Gerome, 
dead  on  the  field,  his  forgiveness  lost  to  her  forever. 

Madame  put  a  gentle  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Marie,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "there  is  no  time  to 
lose."  At  her  words  the  girl  seemed  to  waken  as 
from  a  trance. 

"No,"  she  cried,  "no — no — no !" 

"You  must  come,"  pleaded  her  mother-in-law,  but 
the  girl  shook  her  head  wildly. 

"I  am  not  going,"  she  cried.  Life,  for  her,  was 
finished  and  over.  The  elder  woman  tried  to  urge 
her,  half  dragging  her  through  the  door  as  the 
terrific  roar  of  a  shell  bursting  quite  near  the 
chateau,  thundered  in  their  ears,  but  the  girl  strug 
gled  and  broke  away. 

At  that  moment  the  air  seemed  to  split  with  a 
deafening  explosion,  a  splintering  of  glass,  a  flash  of 
flame.  The  acrid,  bitter  smell  of  powder  and  smoke 
was  stifling. 

Madame  staggered  against  the  door  as  the  orderly, 
his  head  held  low,  came  running  through  the  court 
yard.  He  grasped  her  by  the  hand  and  dragged  her 
out  to  the  waiting  ambulance. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  291 

Marie,  half  fainting,  fell  on  the  coueh,  her  head 
buried  deep  in  the  cushions. 

Her  last  conscious  thoughts  were: 

"Let  the  house  fall  upon  me,  the  ruins  cover  me 
deep !  They  cannot  bury  my  grief !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

FOR  awhile  she  lay  motionless,  half  stunned  by  the 
force  of  the  explosion.  When  full  consciousness  re 
turned  to  her  the  firing  had  grown  fainter,  more  in 
frequent.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  went  to  the  win 
dow.  Out  in  the  courtyard  a  great  hole  gaped  where 
the  shell  had  struck.  Glass  from  the  windows  lay 
scattered  about,  a  garden  bench  was  splintered  and 
overturned.  Havoc  and  ruin  stared  back  at  her. 
Had  Madame  and  the  rest  escaped?  Or  had  they 
been  killed,  and  she,  alone,  left  untouched? 

She  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  dazed,  her 
fingers  clutching  nervously,  her  chin  quivering.  It 
seemed  years  ago  that  she  had  arrived  here  with 
Gerome  to  be  in  the  shelter  of  his  home,  to  be  with 
his  people  in  her  hour  of  need,  and  now  she  was  alone. 

She  seemed  to  see  France,  like  the  bleeding  body 
of  a  woman,  lying  dead  at  her  feet.  Her  wild  eyes 
visioned  Gerome's  white,  upturned  face,  staring 
vacantly  at  the  sky  he  loved.  She  tore  at  her  breast, 
panting  for  breath. 

"God!  God!"  she  cried.  "What  have  I  left  in  all 
the  world?  Why  am  I  not  lying  out  there  with 
Gerome?  Gerome,  I  will  not  go  on  without  you,  I 
can't!" 

She  stopped  her  hysterical  crying.  Her  hands 
dropped  to  her  sides,  her  mouth  set.  She  remembered 

seeing  a  pistol  in  the  drawer  of  the  little  desk  when 

292 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  293 

the  General  had  opened  it  searching  for  some 
papers. 

She  walked  slowly  toward  it  now  as  though  pro 
pelled  by  some  force  outside  of  herself.  With  shaking 
fingers  she  pulled  open  the  drawer  and  for  a  moment 
stared  down  at  the  weapon.  After  a  hesitating  effort 
she  forced  herself  to  pick  it  up,  but  the  touch  of  the 
steel  set  her  trembling. 

"It's  cold,"  she  shuddered.  "It's  horrible,"  and 
then  after  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes  and  whispered 
a  prayer  for  strength. 

Her  pitiful  weakness  disgusted  her.  With  nothing 
left  to  live  for  she  was  even  afraid  to  die.  Slowly 
she  raised  the  pistol  to  her  heart,  her  eyes  tightly 
shut,  her  lips  pressed  in  a  stiff  blue  line. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  her  eyes  sprang  open. 
Footsteps  were  coming  up  the  path,  running, 
stumbling,  heavy  footsteps.  Marie  wheeled,  the  hand 
with  the  pistol  hidden  behind  her  back. 

Someone  came  through  the  outer  door  an_d  crossed 
the  hall.  She  backed  against  the  wall,  her  hand  still 
behind  her.  The  door  was  kicked  open.  A  man 
stood  on  the  threshold,  dusty,  bloody,  spent  with 
running.  His  face  was  twisted  with  hate,  his  lips 
drawn  back  from  his  teeth. 

"You !"  she  breathed,  for  her  wide,  frightened  eyes 
were  staring  straight  into  the  terrible  ones  of  Von 
Pfaffen. 

"You  she-devil,"  his  voice  was  curiously  low ;  "you 
thought  to  trick  me,  didn't  you?  You  thought  by 
giving  me  the  wrong  information  you'd  be  rid  of 
me!  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done?  You  have 


294  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

killed  hundreds,  thousands  of  your  countrymen.  You 
have  sent  them  to  their  death  in  vain !" 

She  was  following  his  words,  shaking,  sinking 
almost  to  her  knees,  cringing  before  the  blow  she 
knew  was  coming. 

The  man's  fury  was  blinding  him.  He  took  a  step 
toward  her.  She  must  be  tortured  for  what  she  had 
done  to  him. 

"You  let  me  take  that  information  to  my 
superiors,"  he  cried  hoarsely;  "they  acted  upon  it. 
You  brought  ruin  to  my  cause,  disgrace  to  me.  My 
career  is  ended.  Did  you  imagine  you  could  deceive 
me  and  no  harm  come  to  you?" 

In  Marie's  breast  a  faint  suspicion  of  what  had 
taken  place  was  awakening.  She  scarcely  dared 
voice  it,  even  to  herself. 

"I  gave  you  information,"  she  panted,  but  Von 
Pfaffen  burst  in  upon  her  words  with  a  string  of  vile 
oaths. 

"But  wrong!  Wrong!"  he  shouted.  "Twenty 
miles  wrong!" 

She  lifted  her  head,  a  breathless,  wondering  hope 
in  her  eyes. 

"And  the  French  have  won?" 

His  face  was  black. 

"Yes,  damn  them  and  you!"  he  swore.  She  still 
leaned  against  the  wall,  the  blood  throbbed  in  her 
fingers  clutching  the  pistol  behind  her  back,  but 
through  her  heart  surged  a  wave  of  joy,  of  thank 
fulness.  Paulette  had  been  in  time! 

"Everything  has  gone  wrong,"  he  snarled,  "even 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  295 

that  message  I  sent  the  other  night  never  reached  its 
destination." 

"There  was  no  message  sent,"  she  said  in  a  clear, 
distinct  voice. 

He  stopped  in  the  step  he  was  taking  toward  her. 
The  look  of  sheer  hatred  that  burned  across  his  face 
would  have  set  her  cowering  with  terror  at  another 
time,  but  now,  the  knowledge  that  she  had  helped 
France,  and  aided  her  husband's  cause,  lifted  her 
above  the  thought  of  fear. 

"I  took  that  tracing  when  your  back  was  turned," 
she  went  on  in  the  same  clear  voice.  "I  burned  it !" 

The  man  made  a  sound  in  his  throat  as  though  he 
were  choking,  his  face  turned  purple,  his  brilliant 
eyes  burned  with  the  fury  of  a  maniac. 

"You  who  did  that !"  he  gasped. 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly. 

"Yes,  I  did  it !"  she  said,  "and  I  knew  the  informa 
tion  I  gave  you  yesterday  was  wrong.  I  sent  you  to 
a  place  twenty  miles  away  from  where  I  knew  the 
attack  was  to  be  made.  I  sent  the  word  after  you 
that  warned  Sains,  that  brought  victory  to  my  hus 
band's  cause !"  And  then  something  of  the  look  that 
had  been  in  Madame's  eyes  when  she  had  echoed  the 
Marseillaise  flashed  into  her  own,  and  she  finished  in 
a  ringing  voice,  "for  my  own  cause !" 

Von  Pfaffen  was  quite  close  to  her  now.  The  veins 
in  his  neck  were  swollen  and  throbbing,  the  whites  of 
his  eyes  shot  with  little  lines  of  red.  There  were 
spatters  of  foam  in  the  corners  of  his  thin  lips. 

"So  that's  what  you  did !"  he  hissed.  "You  devil ! 
I'll  make  you  wish  you  had  never  been  born !  I'll  make 


296  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

your  husband,  if  he  is  still  alive,  despise  you!  I'll 
make  his  people  turn  you  out  of  their  house!  I'll 
make  your  own  people  shoot  you  as  a  spy  if  ever  you 
cross  their  border." 

She  was  watching  him  like  a  cat  watches  a  vicious, 
brutal  dog  that  she  knows  is  going  to  spring  as  soon 
as  he  has  finished  worrying  her.  Her  teeth  were 
tearing  at  her  under  lip,  the  fingers  of  her  free  hand 
picked  at  her  gown.  Why  didn't  he  kill  her  and  end 
it  all,  she  wondered?  His  nearness  sent  a  wave  of 
sickening  nausea  surging  over  her.  The  blood  was 
pounding  in  her  ears.  His  words  came  to  her 
through  it  all. 

"I'll  force  you  into  the  streets  where  you  belong," 
he  shouted  in  her  face. 

Her  eyes  narrowed. 

"If  my  husband  were  here,"  she  said  slowly,  "he 
would  kill  you  for  that !" 

Von  Pfaffen  flung  a  vile  oath  at  her. 

"When  your  husband  sees  you  again,"  he  said,  "if 
he  ever  does,  it  will  be  to  find  you  dead,  and  glad  of 
it!" 

Marie  laughed  a  clear,  ringing  laugh,  cold  and 
absolutely  mirthless. 

"Do  you  think  I  fear  death?"  she  said.  "If  my 
husband  comes  back  I  am  going  to  tell  him  every 
thing,  and  when  he  knows  the  truth  he  will  kill  you 
like  a  rat." 

The  man  stopped  and  looked  at  her  a  moment,  in 
solently,  arrogantly. 

"Oh,  no,  he  won't,"  he  said,  quite  calmly;  "I've 
planned  differently." 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  297 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  whispered. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  going  to  leave  this  room 
alive?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  death!" 

He  looked  at  her  venomously. 

"You're  not  afraid,"  he  sneered.  "Do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do?"  His  eyes  were  so  evil  that 
she  cringed  back  against  the  protecting  wall.  "After 
I  have  killed  you,  I  am  going  to  tell  your  story  in 
my  own  way,"  his  meaning  was  only  too  plain. 

"You  devil,"  she  whispered.  A  wave  of  red  surged 
up  staining  her  white  throat  and  pale  face. 

A  horrible  smile  broadened  his  wicked  mouth.  He 
had  touched  her. 

"There  will  be  more  than  one  man  concerned  in 
the  story  I  shall  tell." 

"You  know  that's  a  lie !" 

He  laughed. 

"How  do  I  know?  There  may  have  been  a  dozen 
before  I  found  you." 

So  that  was  what  he  would  tell  Gerome,  that  would 
be  his  revenge ! 

"You  coward!"  she  panted;  "you  monster!  I'm 
glad  you  failed !  Thank  God  your  cause  has 
failed;! " 

Beside  himself  with  rage,  he  sprang  toward  her, 
clutching  his  hands  about  her  throat. 

"You're  glad,  are  you?"  he  hissed;  "you're  glad!" 

She  struggled  in  his  grasp.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
flash,  a  sharp  report,  then  breathless  silence. 

For  a  moment  the  man  stared  horribly  into  her 
eyes,  his  hands  at  her  throat  clutched  spasmodically 


298  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

once,  twice,  almost  shutting  away  her  breath  before 
they  loosened.  He  coughed,  a  queer,  sputtering 
cough,  straightened  his  thin  shoulders  jerkily,  and 
then  grotesquely  spun  about  and  fell  sprawling  to 
the  floor,  where  he  lay  quiet. 

Marie  looked  down  at  the  smoking  pistol  that  hung 
in  her  limp  hand.  She  stared  at  it  fascinated  as 
though  seeing  it  for  the  first  time. 

He  had  fallen  quite  close  to  the  threshold  of  the 
door  and  keeping  her  eyes  carefully  averted  from 
his  sprawled  body  she  walked  slowly  over  to  the 
little  desk. 

Scarcely  realizing  what  she  was  doing,  she  placed 
the  pistol  in  the  drawer  and  covered  it  up  with 
papers ;  then  she  shut  the  drawer  and  securely  locked 
it.  Her  mind  was  curiously  numb,  as  she  turned  and 
looked  down  at  the  dead  man. 

For  a  moment  she  swayed  irresolutely,  then  with 
a  supreme  effort  went  over  to  where  he  lay.  Shud 
dering,  her  whole  soul  revolting  at  her  task,  she 
stooped  and  dragged  the  body  across  the  threshold 
and  out  into  the  hall. 

He  was  a  horrible  sight.  The  sneer  of  hate  had 
frozen  on  his  face.  His  eyes  stared  wide,  and  his  coat 
hunched  about  his  shoulders  where  she  had  clutched 
it  in  dragging  him  through  the  door. 

With  a  stifled  scream  she  ran  back  into  the  salon, 
closing  and  locking  the  door;  then  she  turned,  lean 
ing  against  the  barrier  between  herself  and  what  had 
been  her  evil  genius. 

"Thank  God,"  she  cried,  "I'm  free!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

WHEN  there  has  been  a  shade  or  promise  of  evil 
hanging  over  our  lives,  when  we  have  waked  each 
morning  with  the  dread  of  what  the  day  may  bring, 
and  go  to  bed  at  night  to  toss  and  turn  in  fear 
of  the  morrow,  and  then,  suddenly,  we  find  that  the 
thing  we  feared  has  happened,  instead  of  the  ap 
palling  terror  and  the  horror  of  its  consequences  that 
we  anticipated,  very  often  there  is  a  sense  of  infinite 
relief,  that  now  no  worse  can  come,  for  the  worst  has 
happened. 

So  it  was  with  Marie.  With  the  closing  and  lock 
ing  of  the  door  on  the  dead  body  of  Von  Pfaffen,  a 
great,  numb  calmness  enveloped  her.  He  was  dead. 
She  had  killed  him.  Nothing  mattered.  There  was 
nothing  to  matter.  The  world,  for  her,  was  finished. 
She  wondered  in  a  curious  subconscious  way  why 
she  did  not  care.  She  had  taken  a  human  life,  yet 
she  felt  no  remorse,  no  fear.  All  emotion  was  dead 
in  her  heart.  She  only  knew  that  she  was  tired, 
terribly  tired.  Her  knees  seemed  to  give  way  under 
her.  She  stumbled,  dragged  herself  with  the  help  of 
her  icy  hands,  hanging  onto  the  chairs,  groping  along 
the  edge  of  the  table.  She  only  knew  she  must  reach 
the  couch,  which  seemed  so  far  away,  where  she 
could  rest.  Her  mouth  was  dry,  her  tongue  felt 
swollen.  It  was  an  effort  to  close  or  raise  the  heavy 
lids  over  her  burning  eyes.  A  dreadful  sense  of  dizzy 

nausea  struck  her.     Suffocating  waves  of  blackness 

299 


300  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

seemed  to  beat  up  from  her  heart  and  surge  across 
her  vision. 

With  a  supreme  effort  she  made  a  last  tottering 
step  toward  the  haven  she  was  trying  to  reach,  and 
pitched  headlong  across  the  couch,  a  great  darkness 
wrapping  her  close. 

The  day  wore  on,  the  cannonading  had  rumbled 
off  into  silence,  the  frightened  birds  had  come  back, 
and  here  and  there,  through  the  garden,  they  twit 
tered  nervously  to  one  another. 

The  sky  was  overcast  now,  the  air  had  grown  heavy 
with  the  promise  of  a  storm.  Every  now  and  then 
a  little  gust  of  wind,  pungent  with  the  smell  of 
powder,  blew  in  along  the  terrace  and  through  the 
shattered  windows.  It  shook  the  curtains,  fluttered 
across  the  unconscious  head  of  the  woman,  lifted  a 
lock  of  disheveled  hair,  eddied  among  the  papers  on 
the  little  desk,  stirred  about  the  disordered  room  and 
died  away. 

Marie  was  mercifully  shut  away  from  the  world, 
her  strained  nerves  had  snapped.  She  could  bear  no 
more. 

Outside  in  the  hall,  behind  the  locked  door,  the 
dead  man  lay,  staring  horribly,  a  tiny  stream  of 
blood  staining  the  marble  floor. 

*  *  *  f- 

When  Gerome  jumped  from  his  dusty,  battered 
motor,  late  in  the  afternoon,  it  was  with  a  heart  full 
of  foreboding  that  he  found  the  great  gates  open. 
The  terrible  havoc  wrought  by  the  bursting  shell 
frightened  him.  He  dared  not  ask  himself  what  he 
might  find. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  301 

He  hurried  up  the  gravel  walk,  his  head  splitting 
and  pounding  from  a  gash  across  his  brows,  which 
had  been  bound  up  hastily.  His  face  was  grimy,  and 
there  were  discolored  circles  about  his  eyes.  He  ran 
along  the  terrace  and  past  the  entrance  door,  know 
ing  he  would  find  whoever  was  left  in  the  house  here, 
in  the  little  salon. 

At  the  window  he  paused,  his  quick  eye  took  in  the 
disorder,  the  signs  of  the  struggle,  the  body  of  the 
girl  lying  inert  across  the  couch,  her  dress  crumpled 
and  torn,  her  yellow  hair,  loose  from  its  pins,  hanging 
in  a  long  loop  over  her  shoulder.  With  a  cry  he  ran 
across  to  her  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

"Marie,"  he  cried,  but  her  head  fell  back  heavily 
against  his  breast. 

Gently  he  laid  her  down  on  the  cushions,  a  dread 
ful  fear  in  his  heart  that  this  might  mean  death. 
The  bowl  of  water  and  the  bandages  that  had  been 
brought  for  Jacques  were  on  the  table.  Hastily  he 
wet  a  cloth,  and  kneeling  by  the  girl's  side  brushed 
back  the  hair  from  her  brow  and  moistened  her  closed 
eyes  and  lips. 

Presently  she  stirred,  her  lids  fluttered. 

"Marie  darling!"  he  said.     "Tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his. 

"Gerome,"  she  whispered,  "is  it  really  you?"  Her 
eyes  were  devouring  him  hungrily,  lovingly,  the  man 
she  had  never  hoped  to  see  again. 

Suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  the  bandage 
around  his  head. 

"Gerome!"  she  cried,  "you  are  hurt!" 

"It's  nothing,"  he  hastened  to  assure  her,  "only  a 


302  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

scratch,  I  have  glorious  news !  We  have  won !  It's 
victory  for  France !" 

"Victory!"  she  repeated  dully,  then  after  a 
moment,  "God  is  good  to  us!" 

He  drew  her  to  him  tenderly. 

"I  had  word  that  mother  and  the  servants  were 
safe,"  he  said,  "but  when  I  learned  that  you  were  not 
with  them,  I  was  mad  with  fear  that  you  might  be 
injured.  I  got  leave  to  corne  and  find  you,  and  thank 
God,  I  have !" 

He  had  come  back  to  her,  but  it  was  too  late,  her 
hands  were  stained  with  blood.  An  overwhelming 
sense  of  what  she  had  lost  swept  over  her.  She 
turned  her  face  against  his  sleeve,  weeping  hope 
lessly. 

"Hush,  dearest,"  he  whispered,  "luck  was  with  us, 
don't  you  hear?  We  struck  just  where  the  enemy's 
lines  were  weakest.  Our  aviators  reported  them 
massing  their  troops  at  Sains,  but  the  attack  there 
was  a  complete  failure.  The  town  must  have  been 
warned !" 

Sains  had  been  warned! 

That  was  something  to  weigh  against  the  heavy 
burden  of  sorrow  she  had  to  bear! 

Holding  her  close  he  listened,  while  she  told  him 
of  their  experience  in  the  chateau  during  the  battle, 
and  then  for  a  long  while  they  sat  silent,  their  arms 
about  one  another,  cheek  against  cheek.  Death  had 
been  so  close  to  both,  might  take  one  of  them  to 
morrow,  but  he  had  her  now  in  his  arms,  warm, 
palpitating,  trembling  with  the  love  he  knew  was  for 
him. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  303 

The  light  began  to  fade,  the  silence  broken  only 
by  the  distant  muttering  of  the  guns. 

"Little  Sainte  Marie,"  he  whispered,  "to  me  you 
are  symbolic  of  everything  that  is  good  and  pure!" 

Across  Marie's  mental  vision  flashed  the  picture 
of  Von  Pfaffen's  body  lying  out  beyond  the  locked 
door.  He  was  dead.  There  was  no  need  that  anyone 
should  ever  know  of  her  past  with  him.  Everyone 
else  who  knew  was  dead.  Her  word  would  be  suffi 
cient.  She  had  only  to  say  that  she  had  discovered 
him  to  be  a  spy ;  that  he  had  come  back  and,  finding 
her  alone,  attacked  her,  and  in  defense  of  her  honor, 
she  had  killed  him. 

She  had  sinned,  yet  she  had  suffered.  Had  she 
not  paid  the  price  in  full?  Must  she  drain  the  cup 
of  bitterness  to  the  last  dregs?  Surely  heaven  did 
not  expect  this  sacrifice.  Would  it  not  make  Gerome 
more  unhappy  to  know  the  truth?  Would  it  not,  in 
deed,  be  wrong  of  her  to  confess?  It  was  written, 
"Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead !"  Why  draw  this 
grizzly  skeleton  into  the  light  of  day?  She  had  suf 
fered  enough.  She  wanted  happiness,  and  to  tell 
Gerome  meant  to  crucify  that  happiness.  Surely, 
other  women  in  the  past  had  erred  and  then  married 
and  lived  contentedly,  without  discovery  or  confes 
sion.  She  had  been  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  unpre 
pared.  It  was  her  inexperience  that  was  to  blame, 
not  she  herself.  In  heart  she  had  always  been  pure, 
her  desire  had  always  been  to  be  good.  Her  con 
science  acquitted  her.  Her  decision  was  made.  She 
would  not  tell. 

Gerome's  eyes  held  hers.     At  all  costs  she  must 


304  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

keep  the  love  she  saw  shining  there.  She  answered 
his  look  with  one  of  passionate  adoration. 

"Marie,"  he  said  softly,  "thank  God  that  you  are 
safe.  I  dare  not  even  imagine  what  it  would  have 
meant  to  me  if  I  had  come  back  and  found  anything 
had  happened  to  you." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"How  wonderful  it  is,"  he  said  at  last,  "to  have  an 
ideal  realized.  You  are  everything  I  ever  dreamed  a 
woman  should  be.  If  I  should  die  to-morrow,  it  would 
be  with  the  knowledge  that  the  woman  I  loved  had 
been  worthy  of  my  implicit  faith." 

Faith !  The  word  sank  into  her  heart.  It  stirred 
and  brought  to  life  again,  conscience.  What  was  it 
to  have  implicit  faith  ?  How  did  one  deserve  that  ? 

He  looked  gravely  into  her  eyes. 

"All  human  happiness  is  founded  on  faith!"  he 
said. 

He  believed  in  her.  Oh,  God,  the  pity  of  it !  He 
believed  in  her,  and  how  had  she  repaid  his  trust  ? 

She  had  hidden  her  past  from  him,  and  lived  a  lie 
all  these  days  of  her  marriage,  in  order  to  shield  her 
self  and  keep  his  faith  in  her. 

To  tell  him  meant  to  lose  his  love.  But  could  she 
go  on  like  this,  living  a  lie?  How  glorious,  how 
beautiful  it  would  be,  what  inexpressible  joy,  if  she 
only  were  the  woman  he  thought  her.  If  she  only 
had  come  to  him  with  clean  hands.  If  the  exchange 
had  only  been  equal.  But  the  fact  that  this  was  not 
so,  could  not  be  eradicated.  She  was  what  she  was, 
what  circumstances  had  made  her.  She  knew  that 
she  was  cheating  him.  Again,  she  brought  her  soul 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  305 

before  the  judgment  bar  of  her  conscience,  and  this 
time  the  verdict  was  "Guilty !" 

Cost  what  it  may,  she  must  tell  him. 

The  pitiful  weakness  of  her  character  that  had 
made  her  drift,  postponing  the  inevitable  day  of 
reckoning,  had  passed.  She  must  flay  her  very  soul, 
and  stand  before  him  as  she  was. 

She  became  conscious  of  his  voice  telling  the  story 
of  the  battle,  of  his  love  for  her,  of  their  future 
happiness. 

Their  future  happiness! 

"Gerome,"  she  said  slowly,  her  voice  vibrant  with 
suppressed  emotion,  "there  is  something  I  must  tell 
you,  something  I  have  been  too  cowardly  to  let  you 
know  before.  I'm  tired  of  lying!  Tired  of  hiding! 
Ashamed  of  accepting  your  love,  when  I  know  it  is 
undeserved.  I  am  not  what  you  think  me!" 

He  looked  at  her,  startled. 

"Marie "  he  began. 

"No — don't  stop  me,"  she  said  quietly,  but  firmly, 
"let  me  tell  you  everything.  When  you  married  me 
you  thought  me  a  pure  young  girl,  coming  to  you 
from  the  convent,  untouched  by  the  world.  I  wasn't 
— I — there  was  another  man  in  Vienna." 

He  clutched  her  arm  in  a  grip  that  made  her  wince 
with  pain. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  His  voice  was  hoarse  and 
strange. 

She  drew  away  from  him. 

"I  knew  you  would  shrink  from  me!  I  knew  you 
would  loathe  me  when  you  learned  the  truth.  I'm  not 
trying  to  exonerate  myself,  not  trying  to  make  ex- 


306  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

cuses.  I  was  young,  scarcely  more  than  a  child.  I 
told  you  I  had  never  known  my  mother.  When  my 
father  died,  I  was  left  penniless,  without  friends, 
without  the  knowledge  of  how  to  support  myself.  I 
was  unused  to  the  fight,  unequal  to  it.  One  day  I  met 
a  man  who  singled  me  out,  a  smile  on  his  lips,  black 
lies  in  his  heart.  He  promised  me  what  I  longed  for, 
protection,  a  home,  marriage — and  I  believed  him!" 

Her  words  swept  over  Gerome  in  a  devastating 
wave,  leaving  his  face  livid.  The  bandage  across  his 
forehead  reddened  with  the  fresh  bleeding  of  his 
wound. 

"Go  on,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "tell  me  every 
thing!" 

"He  found  me  singing  in  a  little  Bohemian  cafe; 
it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do  to  earn  my  living. 
He  befriended  me,  was  kind  to  me,  and  before  I  knew 
where  I  was  drifting,  it  had  all  happened.  Too  late, 
I  realized  what  I  meant  in  the  scheme  of  his  world,  a 
plaything,  a  new  toy  for  a  day  to  be  tossed  aside 
when  my  novelty  had  worn  off.  When  I  knew  the 
truth,  I  left  it  all.  I  came  to  Paris,  where  I  had  dis 
tant  relatives.  I  threw  myself  on  their  mercy.  They 
were  good  people,  as  you  know.  They  took  me  in. 
I  tried  to  forget!  I  never  wanted  to  see  anything 
of  the  old  life  again.  As  the  months  passed  I  be 
lieved  myself  safe,  and  then  you  came,"  her  voice 
lifted,  rang  clear;  "you,  the  man  I  had  dreamed  of, 
whom  I  thought  could  not  exist  outside  of  dreams. 
All  the  love,  all  the  passion,  all  the  adoration  a  woman 
is  capable  of,  I  gave  to  you.  The  rest  of  my  life  you 
know,  every  minute,  every  thought  of  it,  up  to — up 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  307 

to  the  day  you  brought  me  here.  I  was  so  hungry 
for  happiness.  You  were  my  world.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  think  of  losing  you.  I  decided  not  to  tell  you.  I 
would  make  amends  in  a  hundred  ways  for  the  decep 
tion.  I  tried  to !  I  thought  the  past  was  dead,  dead 
and  buried.  God,  how  I  deluded  myself!  When  we 
arrived  here,  here  in  your  father's  home,  all  the  sun 
shine,  all  the  joy  went  out  of  my  life,  for  I  came 
face  to  face  with  that  man !" 

"Here?  You're  mad!"  The  gentleness,  the  re 
finement  had  vanished  from  his  expression,  leaving 
the  face  of  primitive  man  thirsting  to  get  his  fingers 
on  the  throat  of  his  enemy.  "Who  is  he?  Tell  me 
his  name!" 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  his. 

"He  was  known  in  this  house  as  Antoine,"  she  said. 

"Antoine !"  his  lips  curled  with  unutterable  loath 
ing,  "Antoine !  A  servant !" 

"He  was  not  a  servant.  He  was  a  spy  in  the 
service  of  the  enemy !" 

Gerome  dropped  her  arm  as  though  the  touch 
seered  his  fingers,  horror  and  amazement  in  his  face. 

"A  spy !    Good  God !    Then  what  are  you  ?" 

She  nerved  herself.  The  look  in  his  eyes  spelled 
death  for  her,  but  she  must  go  on. 

"When  I  saw  him,  I  was  wild  with  terror.  He 
offered  me  a  price  for  his  silence.  I  was  to  get  some 
information  he  wanted.  What  was  I  to  do?  What 
could  I  do?  I  only  knew  that  I  loved  you,  that  I 
wanted  to  keep  you.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  going 
mad  with  the  fear  of  losing  you!  I  promised  to  do 
what  he  asked !" 


308  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"What  was  it?"  His  voice  was  low,  even,  deadly. 
She  knew  there  could  be  no  hope  for  her,  but  the 
oblivion  of  death  would  be  welcome. 

"I  made  you  tell  me  where  the  attack  was  to  be 
made.  This  was  the  information  he  wanted." 

He  recoiled,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  look  of 
unutterable  horror. 

"You  sold  my  honor,  my  country !"  he  said  at  last. 
"You,  whom  I  trusted  with  more  than  my  life.  Well, 
there's  only  one  thing  to  do.  Both  of  us  must  die!" 
Slowly  he  drew  his  pistol,  his  face  cold  and  white  as 
marble. 

"Wait,"  she  whispered.  "I'm  ready,  I'm  willing 
to  die,  but  before,  I  want  you  to  know  everything." 
He  lowered  his  arm  and  looked  at  her.  "I  knew  that 
if  I  defied  him  he  would  get  his  information  some 
other  way.  I  knew  I  must  seem  to  play  into  his 
hands,  and  thwart  his  purpose.  I  gave  him  informa 
tion,  but  wrong,  twenty  miles  wrong!  It  was  I  who 
sent  the  warning  to  Sains !  And  I  know  it  reached 
there  in  time !" 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  he  told  me !" 

"Told  you?  Where?  When?  Where  is  he  now?" 
His  face  worked,  his  lips  were  drawn  back  from  his 
teeth,  his  voice  hoarse  with  passion. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  rigid,  then  she  stepped  to 
the  hall  door  and  threw  it  open. 

"He  is  here !"  she  said. 

Together  they  looked  at  the  dead  man  at  their 
feet.  Gerome  raised  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"You ?"  he  said. 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  309 

She  nodded  slowly. 

"He  came  here,  just  before  you  did,  to  be  re 
venged  upon  me.  He  said  I  had  deliberately  given 
him  the  wrong  information.  He  taunted  me  with 
the  past.  He,  who  had  caused  it  all !  He  threatened 
my  life,  said  he  would  force  me  out  of  your  arms  and 
into  the  streets,  where  I  belonged.  So  I  killed  him !" 

Gerome  threw  his  arm  up  across  his  eyes.  His 
shoulders  shook  with  dry  sobbing. 

"Marie,  Marie,"  he  cried.  "Oh  God !  my  world  lies 
shattered  at  my  feet !" 

"And  mine — and  mine,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XL 

NIGHT  had  fallen,  dull,  black,  the  sky  overhung 
with  great  masses  of  heavy  clouds.  Like  a  ghost  of 
herself  Marie  sat  staring  out  of  the  window  into  the 
depths  of  the  deserted  garden.  Still,  calm  with  the 
calmness  that  comes  after  storm,  her  unseeing  eyes 
gazed  straight  ahead  of  her.  How  long  she  had  sat 
there  she  knew  not.  She  was  filled  with  that  curious, 
numb  quiet  that  comes  to  one  when  all  fear,  all  hate, 
all  terror  has  departed.  She  was  resigned  to  any 
thing  fate  might  decree  for  her. 

When  she  had  told  Gerome  all  the  bitter  truth, 
he  had  left  her  without  a  word.  Later  she  had  heard 
vague  shuffling  sounds  in  the  hall,  the  closing  of  the 
outer  door,  his  steps  crunching  on  the  gravel.  Her 
staring  eyes  had  tried  vainly  to  pierce  the  velvet 
blackness  outside  the  window.  Instinctively  she 
knew  what  errand  had  taken  him  out  into  the  garden. 
She  could  almost  hear  the  thud  of  earth  falling  on 
the  dead  face  of  Von  Pfaffen. 

The  guns  still  muttered  and  boomed,  lighting  the 
black  horizon  with  sullen,  intermittent  flashes.  As 
she  sat  waiting  her  whole  brief  life  unfolded  before 
her.  The  years  at  the  convent,  her  unhappiness,  her 
struggles  with  poverty,  the  tragedy,  as  she  saw  it 
now,  of  her  lost  honor,  her  escape  from  it  all,  the 
new,  peaceful  life,  and  then  the  coming  of  wonderful 

happiness,  the  happiness  of  requited  love,  the  culmina- 

310 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  311 

tion  of  which  was  the  knowledge  that  she  was  to  be 
the  mother  of  Gerome's  child.  She  knew  that,  al 
though  she  had  drained  the  cup  of  bitterness  and 
misery  to  its  very  dregs,  still  the  pendulum  had 
swung  as  far  the  other  way.  She  had  had  those  few 
short  months  of  supreme  joy.  The  price  had  been 
a  heavy  one.  But  in  the  light  of  retrospection  she 
knew  that  it  was  worth  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  thinking,  dreaming, 
staring  out  into  the  blackness.  Then  she  heard 
Gerome's  step  again  on  the  path,  heard  him 
stumble  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall.  After  a  moment 
he  came  in  and  sank  heavily  into  a  chair.  The  clouds 
had  lifted,  and  an  ominous  red  moon  had  risen,  and 
by  its  faint  light  she  could  see  him  sitting,  his  chin 
in  his  hands.  He  was  thinking,  brooding,  comparing. 
Almost  as  though  he  spoke  them  aloud,  she  could 
follow  his  thoughts. 

After  the  first  bitter  shock  that  had  sent  his  idol 
crashing  to  earth  he  had  been  shaken,  frenzied,  filled 
with  a  curse  for  God  and  man.  But  Marie's  voice, 
as  she  told  him  more  of  her  story,  had  calmed  him 
in  spite  of  himself,  and  some  of  the  terrible  rage  and 
horror  he  had  felt  had  been  laid  with  the  body  of  his 
enemy  in  the  grave  he  had  dug  in  the  garden.  Alone, 
by  the  side  of  that  little  mound  he  had  battled  with 
himself,  fought  as  great  a  fight  with  his  soul  as  that 
being  waged  by  his  country.  It  became  plain  to  him 
that  in  a  small  way  his  problem  with  this  woman  who 
was  his  wife  reflected  the  mighty  struggle  going  on 
outside,  which  was  to  decide  the  destiny  of  nations. 
It  was  as  though  he  stood  apart  and  looked  down 


312  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

from  some  height  on  a  warring  world.  Clearly  the 
great  issues  that  were  at  stake  rose  before  him,  this 
terrible  war,  which  was  to  bring  about  perpetual 
peace,  establishing  now  and  forever  the  brotherhood 
of  men,  which  was  to  build  anew  mankind  and  the  arts 
of  civilization,  was  a  baptism  of  blood  out  of  which 
would  arise  a  new  creation.  Through  the  vision  he 
became  aware  of  the  smallness  of  all  things  else. 

Marie,  sitting  silently  in  the  chair  by  the  window, 
timidly  broke  into  his  revery,  hesitatingly,  as  one  who 
fears  to  waken  a  dreamer. 

"Gerome,"  she  whispered,  "Gerome !" 

Across  the  silent  garden,  up  from  the  distant 
horizon,  came  a  louder  roll  of  guns,  a  fitful  crash  of 
bursting  shells,  and  then  silence.  He  sat  motionless, 
inert,  as  though  he  heard  only  his  own  thoughts,  as 
though  he  were  deaf  to  outward  sounds. 

After  a  moment  she  began  again: 

"I  had  no  one  to  tell  me — no  one  to  advise  me.  I 
was  alone,  more  alone  than  you  can  ever  understand. 
At  first  just  being  happy  was  a  thing  so  wonderful, 
I  clung  to  it,  desired  it  above  all  else  in  the  world. 
But  there  was  something  more  than  that."  Slowly 
he  turned  his  head  toward  her.  She  went  on,  her 
voice  firmer,  steadier,  "I  realized  that  another  life 
was  to  come  into  the  world,  for  whose  happiness  I 
would  be  responsible !  The  glory  of  it — your  child !" 

Across  the  mind  of  the  man  sitting  motionless  in 
his  chair  flashed  something  of  what  she  had  suffered. 
This  child,  the  symbol  of  the  love  that  had  seemed 
so  perfect !  Perhaps  it  would  be  a  daughter  who 
must  be  spared  the  sorrows,  the  privations,  the  lack 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  313 

of  protection,  that  had  been  her  mother's  undoing. 
He  began  to  see  more  clearly  that  in  his  first  wild 
grief  and  disappointment  in  her  he  had  failed  to 
fully  understand.  She  had  not  succumbed  to  tempta 
tion.  What  she  had  done  had  never  attracted  her. 
She  had  been  like  one  who  wanders  alone  in  a  wilder 
ness,  and  who  falls  a  prey  to  wild  beasts,  or  is  over 
come  by  fatigue  or  hunger.  That  she  had  sinned 
was  not  her  fault,  rather  it  was  her  misfortune.  He 
became  conscious  again  of  her  voice,  low,  vibrant. 

"In  the  beginning  I  withheld  the  truth  from  you 
because  I  feared  to  lose  your  love.  Then  when  I 
realized  that  a  new  life  was  to  come  into  the  world, 
I  could  not  bear  that  our  child  should  know  of  its 
mother's  guilt.  I  tried  to  save  it  the  bitterness  that 
knowledge  would  bring.  Gerome,  it  was  for  that!" 

His  thoughts  raced  on.  She  had  been  tempted, 
then,  not  to  shield  herself,  but  because  of  her  great 
love  for  him,  and  to  save  one  who  was  wholly  inno 
cent,  perhaps  a  lifetime  of  unhappiness.  He  listened 
while  she  told  him  little  by  little  of  her  starved  life, 
her  empty  childhood  in  the  colorless  walls  of  the  con 
vent,  the  far-between  visits  of  her  father,  of  those 
short  months  of  happiness  in  the  little  house  in  the 
Blumen  Strasse.  Her  voice  shook  a  little  when  she 
told  of  her  father's  illness  and  his  death,  and  her 
terror  at  facing  the  world  penniless  and  alone.  She 
went  over  all  her  short  life,  her  home  with  the  kind 
old  Schultzes,  her  struggles  to  find  employment, 
finally,  her  singing  in  the  cafe,  her  meeting  with  her 
evil  genius. 

Sitting    there,    touched    by    the   soft    moonlight, 


314  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

motionless,  calm,  without  a  shadow  of  the  tears  that 
had  so  long  been  her  refuge,  she  told  her  story  with 
the  simple  directness  of  a  child. 

Seeing  her,  hearing  her  story  in  its  completeness, 
realizing  some  of  the  pity  that  Christ  must  have  felt 
for  the  penitent  Magdalene,  more  of  the  bitterness 
died  in  Gerome's  heart.  Had  he  not,  in  his  blind  fury, 
judged  too  hastily  this  woman,  whose  weakness  and 
ignorance  had  made  her  the  victim  of  unscrupulous 
force  and  who  had  kept  her  sin  secret  through  the 
generous  motive  of  saving  him  and  his  unborn  child, 
sorrow,  shame?  Perhaps,  after  all,  if  regarded  in  its 
true  light,  her  soul  was  as  pure  as  he  had  believed. 

Secure  in  his  own  strength,  firm  in  his  own  knowl 
edge  of  right  and  wrong,  had  he  not  condemned  her 
too  quickly? 

The  muttering  of  the  guns  on  the  distant  horizon 
again  reminded  him  of  the  struggle  his  country  was 
undergoing.  If  strength  could  reproach  weakness 
for  being  overwhelmed  by  a  force  greater  than  itself, 
then  Belgium,  ravished,  devastated,  bleeding  Bel 
gium,  deserved  the  reproach  of  the  world,  rather  than 
its  pity. 

The  night  was  lifting ;  he  looked  at  her  silhouetted 
against  the  gray  square  of  the  window.  Her  white 
dress  was  crumpled  and  torn,  her  yellow  hair  hung 
loose  over  her  shoulders.  She  seemed  to  him  a 
symbol  of  Belgium,  ravished,  buffeted,  beaten. 

The  greater  part  of  human  unhappiness  is  the  re 
sult  of  misunderstanding.  This  terrible  war,  some 
of  the  horrors  of  which  were  printed  indelibly  on  his 
soul,  had  come  because  of  the  misunderstanding  that 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  315 

existed  between  man  and  his  brother.  Titanic  force 
in  combat  with  Titanic  force  simply  destroyed  itself. 
If  the  world  was  to  endure,  the  great  problems  of 
man  must  be  answered  by  some  other  means.  There 
would  be  a  New  Heaven  and  a  New  Earth  to  take  the 
place  of  those  that  had  passed  away.  Out  of  the 
ashes  of  this  war  must  rise  a  new  era.  Old  traditions 
were  falling  away.  Superstition  with  regard  to  the 
Divine  Right  of  Kings,  that  Old  Man  of  the  Sea, 
which  mankind  had  carried  on  his  back  for  so  long, 
retarding  his  efforts,  using  his  strength  and  sub 
stance,  would  be  cast  aside  forever,  and  with  the 
freedom  of  unimpeded,  reborn  youth,  man  would  rise 
to  that  plane  of  development  which  was  to  fulfill  his 
destiny. 

Surely  then,  since  the  life  and  history  of  each  in 
dividual  was  a  world  in  itself,  he  and  this  woman 
who  was  his  wife  could  begin  again,  awaken  into  a 
resurrection  that  would  break  the  shackles  of  preju 
dice  and  tradition  and  with  that  mutual  understand 
ing  which  comes  after  such  a  storm  as  that  through 
which  they  had  passed,  work  out  their  destinies  with 
a  more  certain  knowledge  of  the  things  in  life  which 
really  make  for  happiness. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  came  and  stood  before  her. 
Silently  she  waited,  motionless,  still.  Her  sentence 
was  about  to  be  pronounced.  She  was  ready. 

"Listen,"  he  said  at  last ;  "out  there  the  old  world 
is  destroying  itself  in  a  flood  of  fire  and  hate.  Old 
ideals  are  passing  away.  Ambition,  greed,  love,  even 
hope  itself  is  tottering  into  nothingness." 

Hopelessly  she  echoed  his  words. 


316  MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

"Nothingness !" 

"Marie,  I  have  been  thinking  all  night,  and  be 
cause  of  the  sorrow  and  suffering  through  which  I 
have  gone,  things  seem  clearer  than  ever  before.  My 
rage  has  been  terrible.  My  unhappiness  almost  un 
bearable.  When  you  told  me  what  you  had  done,  I 
thought  life  was  not  worth  living  another  day.  I 
had  determined  that  both  of  us  must  die.  But  all 
that  has  passed  away.  After  this  great  struggle 
which  is  going  on  between  the  nations  of  the  earth  is 
over,  something  new  and  better  must  come.  Shall 
we  be  part  of  it,  begin  life  afresh,  and  see  if,  after 
all,  there  is  not  some  happiness  left  for  us?" 

Her  face  was  transfigured  with  a  great  light. 

"You  can  say  that  to  me?"  she  asked. 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  his  voice  gentle, 
through  his  suffering  and  hers. 

"Shall  there  be  a  resurrection  that  shall  be  built 
on  perfect  understanding?" 

"Gerome,"  she  whispered. 

The  vigil  he  had  kept  with  his  soul  through  this 
long  and  terrible  night,  the  task  he  had  made  for 
himself  when  he  buried  Von  Pfaffen's  body  in  the 
garden,  the  knowledge  of  her  ordeal,  of  her  lifting 
of  herself  above  the  weakness  that  had  threatened 
to  engulf  her,  the  strength  that  had  made  her  con 
fess  when  there  had  been  no  need  of  confession,  had 
shown  him  what  the  new  life  for  both  of  them  might 
mean. 

"A  resurrection,"  he  went  on,  "where  it  shall  be 
clear  that  the  world  can  live  only  so  long  as  love 
shall  live." 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN  317 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  'Love  shall  wipe  away  all  tears,'  "  she  whispered, 
almost  as  though  she  were  uttering  a  prayer. 

Gerome  held  her  hands  against  his  breast. 

"You  and  I,  dear,"  he  said  earnestly,  "shall  we 
start  anew,  and  when  we  reach  the  far  horizon  look 
back  on  this  hour  as  a  story  that  is  told?  For  to 
understand  all  is  to  forgive  all !" 

The  traces  of  her  bitter  suffering  were  still  on  her 
face,  but  she  looked  at  him  happily. 

"An  hour  ago,"  she  said  softly,  "I  thought  I  had 
nothing  left  to  live  for,  but  the  doors  of  life  are  just 

opening.  Look "  Together  they  turned  toward 

the  window. 

Toward  the  West,  the  clouds  hung  black  and 
ominous,  the  last  draperies  of  departing  night,  from 
whence  came  the  persistent  thunder  of  the  guns, 
where  men  strove,  destroying  the  old  world  in  a  hell 
of  blood  and  steel.  But  on  the  Eastern  horizon, 
turning  all  the  hills  to  ruddy  gold,  was  the  rising 
sun. 

Somewhere  in  a  hidden  thicket  a  bird  twittered  on 
its  nest. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  the  light  of  her  great 
love  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  whispered  almost  as 
though  it  were  a  prophecy : 

"I  can  see  the  light  of  a  new  day !" 

THE  END 


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